


All Alike My Songs And Praises Be

by Euterpein



Series: All Alike My Songs and Praises Be [1]
Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Angst with a Happy Ending, Aziraphale is a priest, Blasphemy, Catholicism, Crowley is a Sweetheart (Good Omens), M/M, Mutual Pining, Slow Burn, Tooth-Rotting Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-09
Updated: 2020-06-26
Packaged: 2021-02-27 04:09:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 32,874
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22180831
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Euterpein/pseuds/Euterpein
Summary: Father Fell likes his simple life on the South Downs. His flock is small and undemanding, his home humble but comfortable, his days predictable. But when a certain red-haired stranger moves to town, trailing mystery in his wake, Aziraphale is forced to confront everything he's ever known about himself, about love, and even about the faith he holds so dear.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: All Alike My Songs and Praises Be [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1800352
Comments: 70
Kudos: 190





	1. Chapter 1

_ “I’d find you, you know.” He whispered into the dark and quiet of their bedroom. He pressed the words into the back of his angel’s neck, unsure if he could hear or if he’d already slipped into slumber. It didn’t really matter; Crowley just needed to say it. _

_ “Find me, my dear?” Aziraphale mumbled back, confused. He’d still been awake, but only just. “Find me where?” _

_ “Anywhere.” Crowley responded, simply. He squeezed his arm a little where it was wrapped around the angel’s middle. “Any time and any place, angel, this universe or any other. I’d find you, and I’d love you.” Aziraphale smiled indulgently, radiant even in the dark of the bedroom. Crowley didn’t have to see it to know. He took the hand Crowley had wrapped protectively around him and kissed the knuckles one by one before entangling their fingers together.  _

_ “I believe you’ve been watching a few too many science fiction programmes lately, my dear.” He settled further into the pillow, still smiling. “But still, I appreciate the notion. I should like to think I’d find you too, in another life. Now go to sleep, love. You promised me croissants for breakfast.” _

_ “You and your French tidbits.” Crowley groused, though without any heat behind it. He laid one last kiss on Aziraphale’s neck before finally closing his eyes and drifting, blissfully, into sleep. _

\-------------------------------------------------------

The tiny village of Norbrook was home to about two hundred souls, and almost twice that many sheep. It got its name from the little stream that made its way across the fields and under the bridge on the high street towards the chalk cliffs to the south. The rolling green pastures in all directions bred simple, old-fashioned folk, though the relative proximity of London did breathe some life into the place in the form of occasional passers-through and visiting relatives. Still, the tidy gardens and immaculate stone houses were as close to the rural English idyll as it was possible to be in the modern era.

Aziraphale liked Norbrook. It was far enough from the coast to stay unfailingly quiet; many other towns on the South Downs were beset by tourists in warm weather, bringing all kinds of trouble and disturbance to the peace in their wake. It had a small grocer’s and even a bookseller, at which Aziraphale spent much time and even more money. And when he needed to restock some of his more speciality treats or to seek out a rarer tome (or, indeed, for a simple change in scenery), London was a quite reasonable afternoon’s drive away( 1) . 

The small shepherds’ town did not bring much of a flock into his door on Sundays, perhaps ironically, which was both blessing and curse. St. Drogo’s( 2) had stood at the centre of town for well over a hundred years, and many of the parishioners who answered the call of its bells had been in attendance long before Aziraphale had arrived to tend to them. Their needs were simple and their requests few, which made his job quite easy on the whole. It also made him... restless, or something like it. He had sworn to practice mercy and to serve his assigned community in whatever way he could. In such a quiet and restful place, seemingly outside the goings-on of the rest of the world, what mercy he had to offer often felt in excess of need. 

Still, he did his duty and went about his business with all the resoluteness of a man with a calling. Today, a Sunday, he had given two services in the morning and spent much of the early afternoon speaking with parishioners; a few giving confession, some seeking advice or guidance, others requesting blessings for births or other important life events. Afterwards he had tidied the small chapel, returning the rather crumbling hymnals to their places in the pews and sweeping up the crumbs from communion. Then, finally, he could make his way home.

He stepped out from the chapel into biting midwinter chill. It was only half-past four but dark already, and the week’s relentless sleet had turned the cobbled road into a rather treacherous path. With careful steps he navigated the hazardous high street, clutching his coat closer to himself to try and ward off the chill. He walked a ways to the south towards the cottage he kept on the far side of town, passing by the bookstore and the pub on his way. Ahead of him, the grocer’s spilt its fluorescent light out onto the street across from him, its wide windows casting a warm glow over the cobbles and the stone of the neighbouring buildings.

Aziraphale felt a sudden and curiously intense compulsion to go into the shop. He didn’t really need anything; he had the makings of a modest supper at home, and his stores of milk and chocolates should hold another few days at least. This didn’t stop his feet from turning and stepping into the quiet lane, crossing the street to the store’s entrance seemingly without his permission. 

The bell above the door gave a quiet tinkle as he made his way inside. It was a small shop, stocked with little more than the bare essentials. The wooden shelves and bins set against the cool grey stone of the walls gave the place the kind of old-fashioned feeling the entire town seemed to cultivate. The grocer himself sat behind a small counter reading a paper, and looked up when Aziraphale entered. The only other customer stood on the opposite side of the shop, mostly obscured from view by the tall shelves. As far as he could tell, there was no reason as to why he had felt so drawn to enter.

“Alright, Father?” The grocer asked, folding his paper and giving a respectful nod in Aziraphale’s direction. Aziraphale mustered up his usual friendly smile, trying not to let his slight disorientation get the better of him. Tom was one of his parishioners, and a fixture of the little town in his solid way. It wouldn’t do to worry him. 

“Quite well, Tom. How are you?” He made his way over to the nearest shelf as Tom gave a polite answer, idly picking up his favourite brand of tea and a packet of ginger biscuits while he was here anyway. He brought them over to the checkout, finally getting a glance at the other customer as he did so.

The man was tall, though not significantly taller than himself. He was shockingly skinny, tight black clothes clinging to his wiry frame in a way that marked him immediately as being from out of town. A shock of fire-red hair stuck up in an artfully coiffed manner that suggested the kind of nonchalance only a great amount of effort could create. He was wearing sunglasses indoors, too, which struck Aziraphale as a bit odd( 3) . A shopping basket hung from one elbow as he appeared to compare two brands of cleaner. Everything about the man seemed to both attract and warn away attention; he was attractive and fashionable, but seemed very sharp around the edges. He didn’t look up as Aziraphale caught himself staring with a start. 

Blushing slightly, Aziraphale set his items down in front of Tom, who dutifully took note of them in his ledger without comment. “That’ll be all for you tonight, Father?” He asked.

“Yes, thank you.” Aziraphale managed. “Er-- will I be seeing you and the wife for mass on Wednesday? How’s she getting on?” 

“Oh yes, Father, we’ll be there. She’s feeling quite a bit better today. That’ll be £5.50.” He took Aziraphale’s notes and gave him some coins back with his usual unhurried solemnity. The other customer, apparently having made his decision regarding cleaners, took this opportunity to saunter towards the checkout as well. His basket was nearly full, as well as his arms; Aziraphale’s keen observational skills( 4) told him the assortment of teas, spices, paper products, cleaners and the like were much more than a person just passing through town might need. 

“Evening.” He addressed the man, ingrained politeness overriding his slight discomfort at being unable to meet the man’s eyes. 

“Evening.” The man nodded. His tilted head and raised eyebrows allowed Aziraphale to track his attention down to the white square at Aziraphale’s own collar. “Father, I presume?”

“Yes! Er-- yes.” Aziraphale cursed himself for his excitability. “Father Fell, but please call me Aziraphale. I’m the priest at St. Drogo’s, just down the way.” He offered a hand out of habit before remembering that the other man’s arms were full. He hesitated, embarrassed. The other man carefully put his basket down on the checkout, nodding at Tom, before turning back to grasp Aziraphale’s proffered hand with long, warm fingers in a firm shake. 

“Crowley.” The smile he offered was small, but it softened his rather severe features in a way that made Aziraphale’s heart skip a beat. “A pleasure.”

“Quite.” Aziraphale answered, a little breathlessly. He cleared his throat, finally pulling his hand away and flushing further. “Do you mind if I ask-- have you just moved? Only you’ve got quite the haul, there.” He tipped his head towards the basket that Tom was slowly and carefully going through. 

“Oh, yeah.” Crowley’s attention was still focused on Aziraphale, a small curl of amusement around his lips, though Aziraphale still couldn’t quite track his gaze. “Just got in, actually. ‘S a nice little village.”

“Emphasis on the word ‘little.” Aziraphale agreed, smiling. “It’s a wonderful place, though, if you like the quiet.” Crowley didn’t seem the sort to like quiet, but Aziraphale was nothing if not honest. “Everyone’s quite friendly here, I think you’ll find.” Crowley’s amused look shifted into a heart-melting grin. It was almost blinding, or seemed so, so very out of context for this man with the aggressively fashionable aesthetic. Aziraphale drew in a sharp breath before he could stop himself. 

“Do you know,” Crowley said, still grinning, “I think I’m beginning to see that.” 

Aziraphale’s mouth, like his feet, seemed to take over without any connection to his brain whatsoever. “I could show you around the town, if you like.” He said, then blinked. He was pretty sure his cheeks were beyond rosy with the way he could feel them burning. “Er-- tomorrow, that is. If you’re free. I know it can be quite disorienting to be new in town, even in such a small village.”

At first Aziraphale feared he’d said something wrong; Crowley’s disarming grin faded somewhat as he seemed to consider, hesitating longer than such an offer might normally warrant. His tone was cautious when he finally said, “Yeah, alright. Thanks. I tend to sleep late-- would around noon work for you?”

“Of course.” Aziraphale agreed. “Do you know where the pub is? They do quite a nice lunch if you’re interested. We could meet there?”

Crowley agreed, amusement playing around his features again, and Aziraphale said goodbye to both him and Tom before finally making his exit. His blush followed him down the wind-swept high street all the way to his little cottage. 

As he bustled around his small kitchen making tea, he replayed the conversation again and again in his head. It had been such a simple thing. Aziraphale interacted with people as a part of his job, and he fancied himself rather good at keeping himself composed around them, but something about Crowley had knocked him off-kilter right from the beginning. He wasn’t so naive as to not recognize at least a little of it as attraction; he hadn’t always been a priest, after all. But it seemed like more than just that. He had been drawn literally _ , physically,  _ towards Crowley before he’d even seen him. Of that much he was sure now. He had felt familiar in some undefinable way, like a story he’d picked up for what he thought had been the first time only to realize he’d read it before, long ago. 

Aziraphale took his tea into his study-slash-library, easily the room within which he spent the most time, and settled into his favourite armchair. Almost out of habit, he glanced at the simple carved cross that sat above the hearth. He frowned at it, thoughtfully, before shaking himself.

“Ridiculous.” He said sternly. “Absolutely ridiculous.” Banishing red hair and tight black trousers from his mind, he pulled his notebook and his bible towards himself to prepare for next week’s sermon. 

  
  


\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

(1)  This was what Aziraphale told himself, at least. London is not a reasonable afternoon’s drive away for anyone, even (or especially) the people who live there.

(2)  St. Drogo is the patron saint of sheep and shepherds. Also coffee shops and unattractive people, though that’s neither here nor there.

(3)  Aziraphale was far too polite to say anything less civil than “odd,” even in the privacy of his own head.

(4)  Read: nosiness


	2. Chapter 2

The next day dawned with surprising warmth. Aziraphale knew it was a false portent, the kind of day that could easily trick you into believing that spring was right around the corner when really the bitter wind would be back the very next day. Still, it was difficult not to hold out some hope when warm yellow sunlight spilled through one’s bedroom window for the first time in what felt like ages. He whistled rather tunelessly to Shubert as he made himself eggs and toast, beaming at the rolling hills he could see stretching out to the horizon beyond his dreadfully overgrown back garden. 

Mondays were generally a day of rest for Aziraphale; his Sunday duties usually left him quite tired, and he didn’t give another sermon until Wednesday evening mass, so he often took Mondays to rest and recover. He had never learned the knack of sleeping in on days off, so he often woke soon after the sunrise and rose to go about his business. Any other day he might have settled into his favorite chair after breakfast and tackled the ever-present pile of books yet to be read. 

Today, though, he found himself somewhat restless. He attempted to read one of his recent acquisitions, one of the rare Pratchett novels not set on the Disc, but even the words of one of his modern favorites couldn’t quite hold his attention today. His mind kept drifting back to the clock and to his friendly walk with Crowley later. After less than an hour he gave up, brewing himself another pot of tea and sitting at his little table to try and think.

Aziraphale tried to tell himself that his offer of a tour had been, and remained, entirely friendly. He somehow doubted that Crowley had Catholic inclinations, but that didn’t stop him from being a new member of the community and was thus more than worthy of Aziraphale’s time and attention. It certainly wouldn’t be the first time he’d walked the length of the town with someone for a friendly discussion. The fact that usually his walking companions were little old ladies who didn’t have anyone else to talk to hardly factored into it; it was a perfectly respectable use of his Monday afternoon, thank you, and no-one would could raise an eyebrow over it. He sighed, trying not to feel as though he was making excuses. He only partially succeeded. 

The more he thought about Crowley, the more he felt a curious mixture of apprehension and excitement. He knew hardly anything about the man. He didn’t know why he’d moved to Norbrook or what he did for work; he didn’t even know if “Crowley” was a first or last name. But just thinking about him gave Aziraphale a small tugging sensation in his gut like the one that had dragged him across the street to the grocer’s the evening before. He felt  _ important _ .

As the hour drew nearer to noon, excitement began to win out over anxiety. Aziraphale showered and then dithered about his bedroom in a dressing gown trying to decide what to wear. The idea of sporting his clerical collar was immediately dismissed; the person meeting Crowley today was Aziraphale, community helper and friend, not Father Fell. After significant deliberation, and not a few changes that he’d never admit to later, he settled on something comfortable but not too terribly old-fashioned. A creamy knit jumper with dark stitched patterns around the edges sat just a bit loose over dark tan trousers, a complement to the heavy wool coat he pulled around his shoulders. He hesitated again when choosing a scarf. He ran gentle fingers over his favorite, an azure blue number that one of his more elderly parishioners had knitted him last year. It set off his eyes perfectly. He tried not to feel guilty for considering that fact as he wrapped it around his neck. 

Most of the sticking sleet had finally melted away in the morning’s warmth, leaving behind wet cobbles that glistened in the light. Some of Aziraphale’s earlier jaunty mood returned to him as he smelled the fresh air wafting in from the surrounding hills; a light salt breeze and sunlight on wet grass. Enchanting. He practically bounced his way into the pub. 

Like much of the town,  _ The Lonely Rose _ had stone walls and was furnished with a dark wood that might have been felled during the reign of King Arthur. It was the only drinking establishment in town and one of only two restaurants, a source of great pain for Aziraphale. On a Monday afternoon it sat practically empty. Aziraphale gave a jaunty wave to the proprietor, a rather sweet Spanish woman who looked up from behind the bar when he entered, before hanging his coat on a hook by the door and sliding into a booth. He checked his watch.11:45; a bit early, but not so much so that he need be embarrassed about it. 

Aziraphale ordered a coffee and chatted happily with Sonya as he waited. She told him about the woes of sourcing ingredients that met her standards this far into the country, and he traded stories of his latest hunt for a limited and quite beautifully illustrated Tolkein edition. Sonya wasn’t one of his flock, but he spent enough time in her establishment (admittedly the far superior of the two options for dining in Norbrook) to have grown quite fond of her. Around 12:10, the door opened again and Crowley stepped through.

He was in much the same clothes as he had been the evening previous as far as Aziraphale could tell. A short, slim-cut pea coat in black hugged his figure almost as much as the tight black jeans, dark sunglasses still firmly in place. Sonya called out a polite greeting to him as he removed his coat and silvery scarf, though her eyebrows retreated swiftly into her wispy grey hair when Crowley looked over and headed towards Aziraphale’s table. 

“Can I bring you a coffee, sir?” She asked, trying and failing to avoid shooting Aziraphale a questioning glance at his choice in dining partner. Aziraphale’s cheeks pinked just a little, but he said nothing.

“Yeah, thanks.” Crowley answered, slipping into the booth across from Aziraphale. She nodded and bustled off, though Aziraphale didn’t miss how she kept shooting the pair furtive glances from across the bar. He sighed a little to himself. He was sure he would be the talk of the village now, though Crowley was bound to be so anyway. In small and insulated places like this, anyone’s business was everyone’s business in no time at all. He turned his gaze back to Crowley as the man settled in to his seat. He looked tired. The sunglasses did nothing to hide the slump of his shoulders, the corners of his mouth where they turned down in something akin to a scowl. It was such a change from the Crowley he had met last night, the one whose smile could have lit up the sun. Aziraphale wondered if that was the real Crowley or merely a fluke. 

“So,” Aziraphale began as Sonya dropped off a cup of coffee and a couple menus, “How was your first night in our little haven?” 

“‘S alright.” Crowley said, taking a healthy gulp of black coffee. “It’s a little bit... eerie, if I’m honest.”

“Eerie?” Aziraphale asked, frowning. Was someone in town bothering him already?

“Yeah. It’s too quiet. No drunken yelling, no ambulances, no traffic. You know, the sweet lullaby of the city. I think I heard bleating from some animal or another. At  _ dawn _ .” Aziraphale couldn’t help but chuckle at the dramatically disgusted look on Crowley’s face, which seemed to draw out a tantalizing ghost of a smile in response.

“You do get used to it.” Aziraphale said. He took a dainty sip of his coffee. “Eventually.” 

They each ordered when Sonya came around again, Aziraphale noting that Crowley chose something that seemed dreadfully small. Then again, from the way his skin seemed practically draped over his bones it was quite obvious the man didn’t eat enough. No trouble; give the little old ladies of the village enough time and they’d make sure the “poor dear” was quite stuffed with treats and goodies. From the glint in Sonya’s eyes as Crowley ordered he had a sneaking suspicion such a feeding campaign would be starting sooner rather than later. 

“I take it you moved from London?” He asked, a little stilted. Crowley didn’t seem to be much of a talker, though he appeared quite happy to listen to Aziraphale blather on. What Aziraphale could judge of his gaze stayed laser-focused on Aziraphale as he spoke.

“Mmm.” Crowley confirmed, lazily. “Lived there quite a while, yeah.”

“What did you do there? Or has your work followed you?”

Crowley seemed to hesitate at that. “I’m... a writer.” Aziraphale brightened immediately.

“Are you really?” He said, positively beaming. “I’m quite the avid reader, you know. What sort of genre?”

A look almost like alarm passed across Crowley’s face before it was swiftly wrestled back under control. He stuttered out, “N-no, not that kind of writer. I write for an, er, well, a plant hobbyist magazine. Of sorts.” He tried to take another hurried gulp of his coffee, glaring at the cup when it proved to be empty.

“Ah.” Aziraphale responded. Crowley’s answer did not ring particularly true, but he could see it would be unwise to push him on it. It did seem quite odd though; what could he possibly be hiding that would put that (delicious) red glow in his cheeks? Something to ponder later. “That’s quite nice as well. Did you bring any plants with you from London?”

He did seem to know quite a bit about plants, at least. Aziraphale listened happily as Crowley described the elaborate setup he’d had in his flat in Mayfair, and the trouble he’d had recreating good indoor growing conditions in his new home. Aziraphale’s entire experience with plant care consisted of his neglected back garden and a single sad fern a friend had gifted him a few months ago, so much of the story went quite over his head. The passion for the subject was obvious in Crowley’s face, though, and Aziraphale found himself entranced anyway. Crowley spoke with more and more animation as he went on, gesticulating wildly all the while, and it brought a lightness to his person that made Aziraphale smile once again. 

Once their food was brought around, conversation lulled only briefly. Crowley barely picked at his small plate, apparently preferring to watch Aziraphale take delicate bites of his perfectly spiced fish instead. They chatted about life on the South Downs and how it compared to the busy thoroughfare of London. Aziraphale told him he’d once dreamed of opening a bookshop in the city, Soho perhaps, though of course the desire broke down when he’d realized that meant he’d have to sell anything from his collection. As he had the night previous, Crowley seemed to relax slowly as the meal wore on. His smiles became easier, his posture melting from rigid discomfort to a kind of boneless sprawl as they traded delightfully easy conversation. It didn’t escape Aziraphale’s attention that Crowley carefully avoided going into any kind of detail about himself and his life, deflecting attention away or giving extremely vague accounts when things got too personal. He tried not to let it bother him too much; Crowley was allowed his secrets, no matter how much Aziraphale burned to know him better.

After lunch, they stepped back out into the watery mid afternoon sunshine. Aziraphale turned them towards the north end of the village and they walked along nearly shoulder-to-shoulder. As they strolled, Aziraphale fulfilled his promise to show Crowley around and offered little tidbits:

“Over that way--you can just see the barn, if you squint--is the dairy. They do quite interesting things with sheep’s cheese; quite good, if a bit experimental.” Crowley snorted at that, but didn’t comment. Aziraphale moved on. “That’s Miss Moses’ house. She’s quite nice if she likes you, but you’d best be sure she likes you. I’m not sure I’ve heard bluer language on the London docks.” On the narration went, Crowley again content to let Aziraphale ramble on without much commentary. Still, he appeared to listen intently to every word.

They turned around before long as the buildings quickly thinned into untamed grass and fences. Aziraphale led them back until they stood in front of the church, where he hesitated.

“Er, this is St. Drogo’s, where I work. It’s quite a lovely old chapel, if you’d like to see...?”

The slight smile Crowley had been sporting most of the walk was wiped from his face.

“Perhaps some other time?” He said, strain in his voice.

“Of course.” Aziraphale said, moving quickly on. Somehow he’d expected that, though he didn’t know how.

Crowley appeared to light up again when Aziraphale pointed out the bookstore, so they dipped inside as they passed. The walls were lined floor-to-ceiling in books, spilling over onto tables and counters until it felt more like a dragon’s hoard than a shop. Crowley seemed drawn immediately to the science fiction and fantasy section, where he ran a long, delicate finger over the colorful covers as he perused. Aziraphale watched him, a fond smile tugging at his lips.

“Are you a science fiction man, then?” He asked. Crowley gave a thoughtful hum. 

“I suppose.” He responded, slowly. “I’ll listen to just about anything, but I’ve always liked speculative fiction as a genre. I like things that explore the edges of reality. Test what it means to be human. Sweep away the lines between the divine and profane and see what’s left behind. ‘S always been my favorite.”

“I didn’t know you were a poet.” Aziraphale said, smiling at the way Crowley could roll his eyes with his whole body. “Listen to?” 

“Ah, yeah. Generally I listen to audiobooks.” He hesitated a moment, turning his gaze from the shelves to Aziraphale as though sizing him up before shrugging and returning to his perusal. “My eyes are... not great, so reading for long periods can be a problem.” 

“Ah.” Aziraphale replied, head spinning momentarily. Is that why he wore the glasses all the time? “I do see what you mean about speculative fiction, though. It’s quite a diverse genre--have you read any Octavia E. Butler?”

They chatted happily about books for a while, winding their way through the tightly-packed stacks and pointing out favorite authors or topics. Aziraphale’s tastes ran a little more towards classical literature than Crowley’s, but they found significant common ground. They both had a soft spot for Shakespeare’s plays, though they couldn’t agree on whether the comedies or tragedies were superior. Aziraphale nearly laughed himself silly at the sour face Crowley made when presented with a copy of  _ The Picture of Dorian Grey _ . He looked up after bracing himself on a bookshelf as he wheezed with mirth to find Crowley gazing down at him with an expression of such soft devotion that his breath was stolen all over again.

They left the bookshop (after purchasing books on illuminated manuscripts and indoor plant pests, respectively) just as the sun began to brush the horizon. 

“Goodness!” Aziraphale said, blinking in its direction. “We have let the day get away from us, haven’t we?”

Crowley hadn’t quite lost the softness from his easy smile. “We have, at that. Not hard this time of year, though. Should prob’ly be getting on home.” 

“Yes.” Aziraphale agreed, reluctantly. “Er, could I walk you home? That is--might as well, since we’re out.” He kicked himself a little at that.

“Well, you wouldn’t want me to get lost, angel.” Crowley grinned, poking him a bit in the side with a bony elbow. “I am new in town, after all.” 

Aziraphale might have laughed, but his brain had stuttered off entirely. “Angel?” He asked, voice quavering just a bit. Crowley immediately reddened.

“Shit--sorry! It’s your name, I thought it was an angel’s name and I just kind of--I’ll try not to do it again.” He looked horrified.

“No!” Aziraphale cried, then caught himself. “Er, no, it’s quite alright. It merely took me by surprise, that’s all.” Crowley very visibly tried to calm himself down, rubbing the back of his neck and breathing deeply.

“Right.” He said. “I’m just this way.”

Crowley had moved into a cottage remarkably close by to Aziraphale’s, only a little further along the main road out of town. It was one of the biggest homes in the tiny village, and one of only a handful of two-story buildings for miles. It had fallen rather into disrepair under the previous owner, heightening its historic aesthetic, but still rose rather imposingly at the end of its own wide lane. 

“Oh, you’ve bought Mr. Norris’!” Aziraphale said, happily. “That’s lovely. I was afraid the old place would go unloved forever. I’m just over there, you know, so I see it quite often.” He pointed to the outline of his own house, visible at a distance even in the dimming light. 

“Yeah.” Crowley looked up at it, then back at Aziraphale. “I should...probably go in and get some work done.”

“Of course! I won’t keep you.” Aziraphale managed to maintain his smile despite the fact that the thought of leaving Crowley’s presence seemed utterly abhorrent to him in that moment. 

“Right.” Crowley appeared to be having the same dilemma, which made something awful thump in Aziraphale’s chest.

“Well.” He had a sudden wild urge to reach out and kiss Crowley goodbye. Not as an act of passion, but one of intimacy; a quick peck that one might share with one’s spouse as they headed out the door to work. It felt so natural to reach out and do so that he found himself swaying forward before he caught on. Like they were lovers who had shared a thousand kisses rather than two men who barely knew each other. Aziraphale leaned suddenly back, away from Crowley, alarmed at his apparent temporary disconnect from reality. “Er--goodbye!” He said in a rush. “Thank you for your company today. I’m sure I’ll see you soon!” He spun around and began walking back to his cottage, cheeks pink and steps quick in his haste.

Behind him, Crowley watched his retreating back disappear down the lane, face uncertain, before finally shaking himself and trudging up the wide steps to the house.

\---------

Two days later, Aziraphale opened his front door to find a basket. It was beautifully but tastefully done up with a dark ribbon. It had a rather expensive-looking bottle of wine, some cheeses and savory biscuits that were most definitely not available for sale in Norbrook or anywhere near it, and a note:

_ Angel, _

_ Thanks for showing me around. Tempt you to a drink some time? _

_ Crowley _

On the other side was printed what was likely Crowley’s telephone number. Despite the confusion and emotional turbulence Aziraphale had been feeling since their definitely-not-a-date, he smiled. He pulled out his ancient brick of a cell phone and, after a little bit of trial and error, texted back:

_ Temptation accomplished. My place tomorrow? _

_ A.F. _

He stashed the basket inside his doorway and his cell phone back in his pocket and took off towards the church, humming quietly to himself.


	3. Chapter 3

His joyous mood seemed to wax and wane over the day between the basket’s arrival and their arranged meeting, interspersed with small bouts of anxiety. They worked out a time for Crowley to meet him, texting on and off in the seemingly few hours they were both awake. Aziraphale had never used his phone so much in his life. Each time it chimed brightly he could feel the flutter in his chest, his hands leaping to his pocket to see what Crowley had sent him. And each time the hopeful leap was followed up by a wash of cold reality.

  


Aziraphale knew what this meant, this feeling. He may be a priest, but he was not immune to the longings of the heart. Or the flesh. He was attracted to Crowley, more so than he had ever been to another person in his recollection, and he didn’t even know  _ why _ . Sure, the man was good-looking. Aziraphale’s type had always run towards the tall and lanky, quite the opposite of himself in every way, and he harbored quite an admiration for red hair. Perhaps he liked the aesthetic of the differences between himself and his potential partners. Not that he’d ever indulged.

  


And that was the rub, wasn’t it? He’d never indulged because he had taken a sacred oath all those years ago to be  _ celibate _ , in addition to merciful. The Lord was supposed to be his first love, his flock the second. It was so difficult to remember when the quiet chirping of his phone bringing another message left him feeling like he was back on the schoolyard. 

  


His jumbled thoughts left him restless, and his Wednesday evening duties were completed in somewhat of a fog. He sat in the dark of the confessional before mass, bearing witness to the simple sins of the people who spent their lives laboring upon the earth, and tried with all his might to be the person they needed him to be. Someone merciful and dutiful. Someone chaste. The words of his sermon felt foregin on his tongue despite the countless times he’d uttered them over the years:

_ Deliver us, Lord, we pray, from every evil, graciously grant peace in our days, that, by the help of your mercy, we may always be free from sin and safe from all distress... _

  


That night his sleep was fitful, intense and disturbing dreams waking him from his slumber several times throughout, though he could never remember them upon waking.

  


\------------

  


The next morning, he cleaned. There was nothing better for clearing out one’s troubled thoughts, as his mother had often said, and troubled thoughts was something he possessed in abundance. So he carefully returned every book set idly down on random surfaces within the house back to their rightful shelves. Papers were sorted and binned, wayward teacups carefully washed and returned to their cupboards. A damp flannel was run along bookshelves and tables and countertops until the wood and stone gleamed. He even brought out his long-unused vacuum to do something about the dust.  _ Purify me with hyssop, and I will be clean, _ he thought as fragrant lavender washed over him from where he scrubbed at the sink basin,  _ wash me, and I will be whiter than snow _ [1] _. _

  


The simplicity of the task at hand did at least help set his thoughts in order. 

  


His choice had been made long ago, and no (admittedly quite appealing) stranger was just going to waltz into his life and change that. A vow made to God was not to be taken lightly. To break it would be unthinkable. Crowley could be a friend, and a valued one, but not more. It would be a test of his faith, and possibly of his rather lacking willpower, but it was a test he simply could not fail.

  


It was late afternoon by the time he felt satisfied with the state of the house. He was calmer and less conflicted, having made his decision, and went happily about the business of preparing for his  _ friend’s _ (he repeated it to himself like a mantra) arrival. He was just laying out the cheeses and savory biscuits he hadn’t yet eaten from the gift basket when he heard a gentle knock on the door.

  


Aziraphale’s breath hitched a little when he opened it to the cold night air. Crowley was dressed in his usual tight black jeans and pea coat, but seeing him again was enough to knock a chunk out of Aziraphale’s carefully constructed walls. He looked enchanting standing there, haloed in the dim light spilling out from the doorway, breath visible in the chill as it spilled from his lips. After being struck dumb for just a moment, he noticed the bottle of wine Crowley was carrying.

  


“Oh!” He said, shaking himself. “Do come in! Here, let me take that for you.” Crowley passed Aziraphale the bottle carefully, stepping over the threshold as Aziraphale bustled into the kitchen. “You really didn’t have to bring more, you know, not that I’m complaining.” He called out over his shoulder. “I’ve been saving the bottle you sent with the basket. I thought we’d open that.” He muddled through a drawer until he found his wine key and began to work on the bottle. It was a good vintage; equally as expensive as the one from the basket, he was sure, though he didn’t recognize the label. 

  


“That one was for you.” Aziraphale jumped a bit as Crowley’s voice came from much nearer behind him than he’d expected, and he whirled around to see Crowley giving him a soft, amused smile as he leaned against the open arch. Crowley had dressed up somewhat under his coat, looking decadent in a rich burgundy blouse that somehow managed not to clash horrifically with his hair. A collection of black and silver necklaces teased at the distractingly low neckline. Aziraphale swallowed, hard. 

  


“Yes, well.” He spun back, returning to the task of opening the wine while trying to get his wild pulse under control. “Such a wonderful treat is all the better for being shared, I’ve always found.”

  


Crowley hummed in what might have been agreement. “I do hope you helped yourself to some of the stuff from the basket, at least. It was a gift, for showing me around.”

  


“Oh, I did.” Aziraphale assured him. He had finally worked the cork out of the bottle and busied himself serving them each a generous pour into a glass. “You must tell me where those decadent little truffles came from. They were simply  _ magical. _ ”

  


“A magician never reveals his secrets.” Crowley smirked as he accepted a glass from Aziraphale’s hands, their fingers brushing over each other for just a moment. The warmth spilling out from them was almost shocking.

  


Aziraphale led them into his rather small sitting room, plopping down into his favorite armchair. This room, like his study, was lined with bookshelves from floor to ceiling. The furniture was comfortable if not often used. A large stone fireplace dominated one wall, fire crackling merrily from where Aziraphale had lit it earlier and lending a dim but exceedingly comfortable ambiance to the room. Crowley followed him in, choosing to recline on the patterned sofa in a way that let him face both Aziraphale and the fire. 

  


To Aziraphale’s great surprise, Crowley set his glass down on an end table almost immediately and slid the sunglasses from his face, folding them carefully before settling back against the armrest. His eyes were a rich brown, and restless, roving around the room to settle on the spines of books and on the scattered paintings before darting off again. Aziraphale thought they suited him immensely.

  


“I have to admit,” Crowley said after a moment of comfortable silence, “I was expecting something a bit messier.” He seemed to realize what he had said a moment later, and sputtered “Not that I thought you’d be--I mean--you don’t strike me as a slob or anything, you just-- oh bugger.” He took a deep draught of his wine to cover his embarrassment.

  


Aziraphale’s cheeks heated. “You’d actually be right most of the time.” He admitted. “I had a bit of a... wild hair this morning and decided to do some cleaning. It’s usually a bit more cluttered than this.” They both chuckled, slowly letting their mutual embarrassment wash away in the face of each others’ honesty.

  


Once the initial awkwardness was out of the way, talking to Crowley came as easily as breathing. Crowley spotted one of his prized pieces, a translation of Euripides’  _ Orestes _ from the Greek, and they spoke at length about drama through the ages. Crowley mentioned a project through one of the American universities to digitize many of the ancient works which were too delicate to even open using some type of scanning machinery, which led them down the path to Aziraphale admitting his rather nonexistent skills with technology (much to Crowley’s amusement). Words and hours flowed between them like warm honey; easy and sweet.

  


The wine also flowed. Aziraphale had been right; it was delicious, and obviously expensive, but Crowley drank it with enough nonchalance that he didn’t feel too bad indulging. They made their way through the first bottle and into the second, letting it relax them into the easy camaraderie they had cultivated. 

  


About the time Aziraphale was hazily considering going through his cabinets for a third bottle, they were both well beyond tipsy.

  


“You know wha’s weird?” Crowley asked, words a little slurred around the edges. He had sunk further into the settee over the course of the evening, endless limbs draped fetchingly across the arms and long torso fully on display where he stretched out. It was frankly a miracle he was still drinking from his wine glass without spilling it all over himself. The fire cast its dim red glow across his lithe form in whispering bursts, and Aziraphale thought he could have just stepped out of some work of Renaissance portraiture. He had long ago given up pretending as though his eyes weren’t being constantly drawn back to the thin strip of skin just visible where Crowley’s blouse had ridden up.

  


“What’s weird, my dear?” His words came out much less affected than Crowley’s, but the blush creeping up his face and staining his cheeks gave away that he was no less affected by the wine than his companion.

  


“Bells. Thas’ what’s weird.”

  


“Bells?” Aziraphale asked, somewhat absently.

  


“Yeah.” Crowley confirmed. “‘S like, all the time here. Swear I never heard ‘em in London. Big old bells, ringing all times of the day and night. I woke up this morning to one of em goin’  _ bong _ and whatnot,” he illustrated the  _ bong _ in his true dramatic fashion, holding his arms wide and letting his voice drop to mimic the ringing of a large church bell, which made Aziraphale giggle, “an’ do you know what time it was, angel? Six! Six in the morning! ‘S not right, that.” 

Aziraphale hummed in something approximating agreement. “I’m partially responsible for that one, I’m afraid.” 

  


Crowley moved on the sofa, wriggling around in a strikingly serpentine manner until he could look at Aziraphale more directly.

  


“What, it’s your church it’s coming from?” 

  


“That’s the one.” Crowley looked contemplative for a moment.

  


“Prob’ly should’ve guessed that one, if I’m honest.” He admitted. His face twisted for a moment. “You don’t ring them yourself, do you? Like, you don’t have to go up a bunch of stairs and pull on a rope or what have you? At  _ six? _ ”

  


Aziraphale giggled a bit more at Crowley’s near-horrified expression. “Goodness no, not at all.” He reassured him. “They’re on a timer nowadays. Six in the morning and evening as well as noon, and whenever I’m holding mass.”

  


Crowley stared at him, mouth hanging open slightly, confusion drawn in every line of his face. Aziraphale found his gaze drawn inexorably down to Crowley’s lips, wine-stained and just as flushed as the rest of him. “Do people not have phones here? Or watches? Why the need to wake the whole village?”

  


“Hmm?” Aziraphale managed to tear his eyes away from Crowley’s lips and met his gaze. “Oh, no. They’re meant to call the faithful to prayer, if you must know.  _ Evening, morning, and at noon will I pray, and cry aloud: and He shall hear my voice _ [2] _. _ ” 

  


“And people do that, do they? Stop whatever they’re doing and pray?” 

  


“Well, not many of them, I’ll admit.” Aziraphale swirled the last sip of wine around in the bottom of the glass before bringing it to his lips. “There are many who find comfort in it, however. Or at least have fond childhood memories of hearing those bells when there  _ was  _ someone up there pulling on the rope at all hours of the day.”

  


He stood, a little less steadily than he was entirely prepared for, and tottered off to the kitchen to grab them a fresh bottle. What he had in his stores was a good sight less appealing than what they’d been drinking, but Crowley didn’t bat an eye when Aziraphale brought it out to offer a top off. By the time he settled back into his armchair, he had quite lost track of what they’d been discussing. Crowley, however, was looking at him with an unexpected seriousness over his fresh glass.

  


“Do you? Crowley asked, so quietly Aziraphale almost didn’t hear. His posture was nearly rigid, especially for him, and his gaze was sharp.

  


“Do I what?” 

  


“Pray. When you hear the bells.”

  


Aziraphale blinked at him a moment, not at all expecting the question. “Er, well, sometimes, I suppose. Not every time I hear them, certainly. You’re supposed to recite the Lord’s Prayer or the  _ Angelus _ , but mostly I just let them...sort of wash over me. Remind me of my...duty.”

  


Crowley’s eyes fell down to where Aziraphale’s fingers gripped his glass, twisting it nervously around as he fidgeted in discomfort. 

  


“Sorry, didn’t mean to pry.” He eased back into the sofa, visibly letting the intensity that had gripped him leave his body through sheer force of will. “‘S just that not all priests are true believers, ya know?” 

  


“You’re quite all right.” Aziraphale took a deep, steadying breath. He felt as though the supposedly solid ground he’d been treading on had suddenly given way beneath him, leaving him standing over the thinnest sheet of ice. He didn’t know what to say to prevent it from cracking. He hazarded, “You’re correct, though. There are many out there claiming to be messengers of God who do so for their own ends, or just to cause trouble. To prey on the faithful and the needy.”

  


“But not you.” Crowley’s voice had gone quiet again, speaking almost more to himself than anything. Aziraphale wondered if he’d touched on something sensitive or if Crowley had just slipped into the morose stage of drunkenness.

  


“Well, I can hardly claim to be the purest of my kind.” He raised his glass as if in illustration, eliciting a small quirk of a smile from Crowly. “But yes, I believe. Er-- more or less.”

  


Crowley’s eyebrows climbed nearly to his hairline.

  


“ _ More or less? _ What on  _ earth _ does that mean, angel?”

  


Aziraphale’s already flushed face pinked further. He wondered if the wine had gotten more ahold of him than he’d anticipated. “Oh, dear. That’s really not--well. Just because I’m a priest doesn’t mean I believe everything I’m told, you know. I can see the Catholic Church isn’t perfect, even if I am rather beholden to it.” 

  


Crowley was looking at him with something between incredulity and wonder.

  


“So, what, you believe in God but not the church? Angel, you’re a  _ priest _ . A  _ Catholic _ priest no less, not even a, a...” he seemed to cast around through his scattered thoughts, “a Unitarian priest. Or whatever. That’s a thing, right?” 

  


Aziraphale sighed. He really hadn’t been expecting to have this conversation; theology was normally not a topic of conversation he pursued with other people due to his position. He had to admit, though, that Crowley seemed much less judgemental than simply flabbergasted. Perhaps it wouldn’t do any harm.

  


“I do believe in God.” He began, slowly and carefully. “And I believe that He, She, It, or They watch over us in their own ineffable way.”

  


“Good word, that.” Crowley was still staring at him as though he was the most fascinating thing he’d ever seen. It made Aziraphale itch, though he couldn’t quite identify why.

  


He continued, “I believe that the vow I made is sacred, both to God and to the people I’ve dedicated my life to helping. And I believe that the church is...well, it means well, mostly. Certainly there are many good and righteous people in it, who believe there’s something worth salvaging. I have to believe that I can do God’s work, that there’s some good left in it. I have to.”

  


Crowley shook his head, disbelieving. “I wish I could--” He stopped. Took a breath. “I don’t. Believe.” He took a drink from his wine glass, which shook slightly in trembling fingers, looking anywhere but at Aziraphale’s face.

  


Aziraphale’s brow knitted together in brief confusion. Was Crowley worried Azirapahle would get angry with him? Kick him out of his house? It was hardly anything he hadn’t already guessed, though it was quite obviously not the whole of the story. That tremble was more than nerves; it was fear, bone-deep and well-worn. Aziraphale wanted desperately to know the shape of it so he could perhaps begin to help, to heal. 

  


“That’s alright.” Aziraphale tried, tentative. “If it doesn’t call out to you, don’t follow it, as my father used to say. You’re still more than welcome here.”  _ Here with me _ , he thought, traitorously.

  


Crowley looked at him. The moment stretched between them, broken only by the low crackling of the fire, anticipation heavy on Aziraphale’s chest. Eventually, Crowley looked away. 

  


“Thanks.” He said. “I... I mean that. Thanks.”

  


Aziraphale nodded. “Of course.” He didn’t say, _let me in, let me help you_ , though he wanted to. He didn’t say, _I am afraid of what I would do to chase that look out of your eyes_ , or _stay with me, here, now._ _Please_. Instead they let the silence settle over them again, heavy with things unsaid. Aziraphale could tell his thoughts were not the only ones in the air; Crowley’ face was drawn inward and his lips moved slightly, obviously holding back whatever words he wanted to say but wouldn’t. In another life, Aziraphale thought, he might have been strong enough to hear them.

  


After a few moments, Crowley sighed and set his glass gently down on the spindly table beside him. He put his glasses back on, sealing his eyes away from Aziraphale’s vision once again, and rose to feet only mildly unsteady. 

  


“It’s late.” He said. “I should get a wiggle on and let you get some sleep.”

  


Aziraphale swallowed but didn’t argue. He stood and followed Crowley into the hallway, watching him wrap the familiar pea coat around his shoulders like armor.

  


“Well then. Mind how you go.” Crowley stopped with the door open a few inches and turned back to look at him. His expression was almost unreadable. Aziraphale found himself missing the openness of his eyes already.

  


“Yeah.” Crowley whispered. He seemed to battle with himself for a few moments, coming to some decision Aziraphale couldn’t parse. “Listen, I’m almost finished unpacking now. When it’s done, you could... come over? I could make us dinner.”

  


Aziraphale breathed again, not realizing he’d been holding his breath. He smiled, ecstatic. “I didn’t realize you cooked!” 

  


Crowley looked mildly embarrassed. “Well, I cook a bit. Don’t expect anything too fancy. Is that a yes?”

  


“My dear, I would  _ love  _ to.” Aziraphale assured him. Once again, he felt a curious and nearly overpowering urge to reach out to Crowley; to right the stray red curl that fell down across his knit brow, to brush their lips together in parting. He wanted so desperately to just  _ hold  _ him. Instead he tightened his hands together in front of himself, before he could do something foolish. 

  


Crowley offered him the ghost of a smile before stepping out into the enveloping dark. “G’night, angel.” Was all Aziraphale heard before the door clicked softly shut behind Crowley’s retreating form.

  


“Good night, Crowley.” Aziraphale said, a whisper in the hushed quiet of the entryway. He waited a few seconds and then turned to go put away the remains of their wine. If his normally plush and comfortable bed felt oddly cold and bereft that night, it was no-one’s business but his own. 

  


[1] Psalm 51:7

[2] Psalm 55:17 


	4. Chapter 4

Aziraphale’s pounding headache the next morning reminded him quite thoroughly why he no longer drank heavily well into the night. Even if it was with handsome strangers. He groaned, bringing his hand up to shield his eyes from the sunlight slanting in from the windows. Another beautiful day, promising to be sunny and warm; highly unusual for this time of the year. Incredible how what had seemed such a boon just days ago could cause such ache in him now. After the initial waves of pounding pain and nausea passed, he rolled gently into a sitting position and got unsteadily to his feet. He glanced at the rather ancient clock ticking away against the wall. It was only half past ten; not as bad as it could have been, he supposed, though later than he usually liked to sleep.

A couple glasses of water, a hot shower, and a simple breakfast of toast and butter seemed to right the worst of it, though he couldn’t quite shake the sharp pain right behind his eyes. At least he felt like a human again and not like a pile of pain and goo. He sat at his small kitchen table gazing out at the rolling green hills and munching on toast with little appetite, wondering what he should do with himself today. He needed to work on his sermon for this coming Sunday, although blessedly Lent was still weeks off so his duties were relatively light, but found his mind constantly wandering back to the previous evening before he could motivate himself to get anything done. Part of the problem was the sitting room. It sat cold and empty and dark, so unlike the gentle fire-lit and wine-fueled bubble of warmth of the night before, but still brought its vivid memories to the front of Aziraphale’s mind.

The exchange he’d shared with Crowley was niggling at him. He’d met people before who’d had bad experiences with the church, many of whom had been raised in religious households and ousted by their families for one reason or another. That might explain Crowley’s unwillingness to step inside St. Drogo’s on their little excursion. It might also explain the way he had shaken when confessing his atheism, though it seemed quite a harsh reaction to Aziraphale. Still, it was impossible to know what others were going through. Had gone through. Whatever the case was, Crowley’s relationship with God, or lack thereof, was not the peaceful and loving one he himself tried to express to his parishioners on a weekly basis. It hurt Aziraphale deeply to think of what might have happened to Crowley for him to have formed such a traumatic association with the divine. 

After stewing in this mental mire for a while too long, he sighed. It was obvious he wasn’t going to get anything done in the house with the after-images of their conversation still burned behind his eyes. Perhaps he’d take his work into his tiny office at St. Drogo’s for the day.

The maddeningly bright sunshine hadn’t let up by the time Aziraphale bustled out the door. He’d opted for his priest’s collar today, probably because it was so familiar by now it felt almost like a shield, something he could retreat behind while he gathered his thoughts. He made his way from the small cluster of cottages his home belonged to and set off down the high road, trying to shield his still-aching eyes from the worst of the sunshine.

As he walked, the first deep  _ bong _ of the noontime church bells rang out across the quiet street, making Aziraphale startle. He could see St. Drogo’s ahead, its somewhat imposing stone and coloured glass rising high above the buildings around it. The bell swung, hypnotic, catching the sun with every arc. The deep pealing tones set out a regular and familiar beat that Aziraphale could feel resonating throughout his entire person. For the first time in a long time, he stopped dead in his tracks, and he prayed.  _ Ora pro nobis, Sancta Dei Genetrix.  _ When was the last time he had prayed like this, and not just during mass? He was ashamed to admit to himself that he couldn’t quite remember.  _ Ut digni efficiamor promissionibus Christi _ [1]. The familiar words were a comfort to his troubled soul. 

As he was stepping through the large oak double doors into the chapel a few minutes later, his phone pinged in its chipper little way.

_ C: I don’t know about you, but I feel like something crawled inside of me and died _

Aziraphale stifled a grin. Somewhat haltingly, he texted back:

_ A: You’re not alone, unfortunately. I think we might be a bit too old for this sort of thing anymore. _

_ A: I hope the bells didn’t wake you again? _

He made his way through the small chapel, quiet footsteps echoing off the ancient stone flooring to skitter across the rafters. His office was tucked away at the end of a short hallway off the main room of the church. It was stuffed full of records and some of his theological works (though, of course, none of his  _ truly _ valuable tomes), an untidy sprawl in which he felt right at home. His phone pinged again.

_ C: They did, but I don’t mind _

_ C: Probably should get up anyway. Need to finish unpacking _

_ C: Besides, they remind me of you now _

Aziraphale blinked at his phone’s tiny screen. His heart clenched in his chest as he read the last line over again, something unfamiliar and horribly dangerous trying to climb its way out of his throat. He breathed through it, trying not to examine the feeling too closely, before responding carefully.

_ A: I’m very glad. Does this mean you’ll be cooking for me soon? _

He went through the motions of bringing out his sermon book and bible, but the phone sitting innocuously on his desk kept drawing his attention back.

_ C: Should be done soon. Tomorrow? _

_ A: Sounds wonderful. _

After that, he tucked his phone in one of his desk drawers to stop himself from being glued to it. He’d gone decades without a mobile earlier in his life, and he would do fine without its comforting and teasing potential for a few hours while he got some work done. He told himself that sternly as he settled in to do the Lord’s work.

A little over an hour later, a gentle knocking startled Aziraphale out of the deep concentration he’d found poring over one of his older bibles. A young woman stood in his doorway, looking sheepish.

“Sorry Father, I didn’t mean to startle you.” Her soft, northern tones were hesitant as she hovered. 

“No, Claire, that’s quite alright.” He assured her. “I got quite absorbed there. Please, come in, and take a seat.” He indicated one of the armchairs angled invitingly towards his desk, cramped as they were in the tiny space. Claire came in and perched carefully onto the edge of one of the seats. She looked highly uncomfortable, sitting stiffly upright and seemingly unable to meet Aziraphale’s eyes. She was perhaps thirty, with curly, dark hair and fair skin set off by her deep blue jumper. 

After a few moments of stretched silence where Claire seemed unable to begin whatever it was she had come to say, Aziraphale prompted gently: “So, my dear, what brings you to see me today? Is your mother quite well?”

“Er, yes, Father, she’s well. She sent me here, actually. To, er. To check on you.”

Aziraphale’s eyebrows climbed heavenward. “Check on me?” Claire nodded, looking increasingly embarrassed with every passing moment. Aziraphale wracked his brain for anything that might have warranted sudden concerns over his well being. Clarie’s mother, Meredith, was a friendly if somewhat chatty sort who had been in the first pew every Sunday morning since Aziraphale arrived. They’d shared a fair few conversations over the years, but he wouldn’t exactly have counted her as a friend. “Did something happen, my dear?” He asked, trying not to sound exasperated as Claire stayed silent where she sat. “Because as of this morning I’m quite alright, I assure you.” 

“No, father, nothing’s ‘appened. There’s just been some... rumors going around that you’ve been hangin’ around with that new fellow and she wanted to make sure you were alright.” She blew through the last sentence at speed as though to get it over with as quickly as possible, eyes still fixed firmly at a spot somewhere on his desk rather than meeting his eyes. Her cheeks were red and flushed; she looked as though someone were holding her at gunpoint to be there. Considering what Aziraphale had seen of Meredith’s parenting strategies, he imagined that might not be far off. 

“I...see.” Aziraphale said, carefully. His head was swirling with a whole jumble of thoughts, many of them a level of uncharitable that would be quite beneath him as a man of God. He tried to reign in his anger and the sudden gulf of fear her words brought forth in him. The girl was practically quaking where she sat; it wouldn’t do to lash out at her for something that she was obviously under great duress for. He took a deep breath to steady himself before continuing. “Does your mother have any particular reason for concern regarding our new neighbor, or have I let myself become such a shut-in that the thought of me making a friend is unusual enough to warrant a checkup on my mental health?”

Claire offered the ghost of a smile at this rather poor attempt at humor, obviously glad he wasn’t shouting her out of his office. “She’s had a few choice words about the look of him, Father, but nothing in particular I think. Though she did say he looked like he might have been from the mob or somethin’.” She hesitated, then continued, slowly: “You have to admit, he does look a bit...odd. You know I did my schooling in London, Father, and even in the city I think he would’ve stood out. All that black, the painted nails, the hair. The  _ flash _ .” She smiled again, as if at a memory, making Aziraphale wonder if she’d actually seen him. Perhaps she’d peered through the blinds as Crowley had sauntered by, watching the sway of those narrow hips as he slunk his way through the town. Or perhaps she’d just heard his description from someone who had done so.  _ Anyone’s business is everyone’s business indeed. _

Aziraphale sighed lightly. The headache from this morning was coming back with a pounding vengeance, pulsing behind the temples he desperately wanted to rub. He had known it was inevitable that the rumor mill of the small town would fall down on him and Crowley eventually. He had been hoping it would take a bit more time, given them a little bit more space to establish their relationship ( _ friendship _ , he corrected himself mentally. A man of God had to watch his words, even in the privacy of his own mind) before taking off without them. Apparently his hopes had been optimistic.

He remained carefully composed, a kind if rather strained smile on his face. “I can assure you, dear, that I am quite well. Crowley is a new member of our community and I have been helping him get the feel of the place in the spirit of goodwill. He’s not from ‘the mob,’ as far as I know, and I have not felt that I’ve been in any sort of danger. Tell your mother that for me, will you? And the rest of the gossips who I’m sure have spoken of nothing else since he arrived.”

Claire nodded, giving a little self-conscious smile as she grabbed her bag and stood. Before she headed off, though, she hesitated. “Father?” She asked, quietly.

“Yes, dear?”

“What’s he like?” She looked a little wistful.

Aziraphale blinked. “Crowley?” Another nod. “He’s...well. He’s a little grouchy at first, but he’s quite kind once he opens up a little.” Claire was hanging on his every word like a child listening to a fairy story, obviously fascinated. Something dark twisted in his stomach then, a strange and unfamiliar bristling in the face of her interest. He realized with a sudden jolt that it was jealousy. He was jealous at this woman’s attentions towards the object of his attraction, his  _ friend _ , whom he had been subconsciously squirrelling away from the rest of the world where he could keep him safe. Keep him all to himself. Shame swirled low in his gut. “He...he likes plants.” Was his somewhat lame finish, too blindsighted by the unfamiliar feelings to continue.

When Claire had gone he planted his elbows on his desk, rubbing slowly at his temples as he had been absolutely desperate to do for the past ten minutes. 

“Oh.” He whispered into the musty quiet of his office. “Fuck.”

\-----------------------------------------------

The next night, he fiddled nervously with his bowtie as he stood on Crowley’s veranda, a bottle of red wine in one hand and the other twisting the fabric hopelessly further and further away from any semblance of neatness. He’d been standing there for nearly ten minutes, working up the nerve to knock. The veranda, and much of the rest of the outside of the house, had obviously been redone before Crowley had moved in. The stone cladding of the walls had been washed and cleared of clinging ivy, the whitewashed and rotted wood of the floor ripped out and replaced by a polished dark oak. Large planters in a style a little too angular to fit the traditional English style flanked the stairs, and flower boxes sat on railings and on the sill of every window; it was too cold for anything to be growing now, but Aziraphale could almost picture the riotous blooms that might spill from every corner come spring. It definitely seemed that whatever Crowley’s story might be, he had come to their little village to stay.

He distracted himself by looking around at the improvements that had been made before he realized it was mostly an excuse to dither further.  _ Come on you silly thing,  _ he thought rather angrily to himself,  _ you’re a grown man and a priest, not a teenager on their first date. Pull yourself together. _ Finally, he managed to bully himself into reaching out a hand and rapping smartly on the sleek oak door. 

There was a series of muffled shuffling noises and a rather worrying  _ bang! _ Before Crowley appeared at the door, slightly out of breath. He’d gone slightly more masculine in his style tonight; a black, cable-knit jumper with a beautiful snake pattern picked out in gold sat atop his usual skin-tight jeans. Aziraphale noted absently that his hair had been allowed to grow out, just a little, only enough for small red locks to curl charmingly around the shell of his ear. 

“Angel.” Crowley said, still panting slightly. 

“Y-yes, hello!” Aziraphale drew himself back from where he had been staring. “How are you, dear boy? I brought wine.” He brandished the bottle nervously, as if to buy himself safe passage through the doorway, then felt rather silly and let it fall back to his side. 

“Oh.” Crowley looked at Aziraphale and then the bottle, a little bemusedly. “Er--right, you’d better come in. I’ll take that.” Aziraphale slid him the bottle and then followed him inside, trying not to be too obvious about his gawking. He had been in this house only once before, three years ago, when he’d delivered Mr. Norris his last rights. It had been horribly old-fashioned in a garish way, stuffed full of the memorabilia of times past and people long forgotten. Aziraphale had assumed the place would be cleared out after Mr. Norris’ passing, but nothing quite to this extreme. 

The place was nearly unrecognizable. Like on the veranda, the creaking floorboards had been ripped out and replaced. The floral wallpaper had been covered over by a cool, slate grey, and everything was illuminated by low lights in fixtures so state-of-the art Aziraphale couldn’t identify a mechanism for switching them on. Art pieces running from the modernist and abstract (and horrifically ugly) to the ancient and classical decorated the walls and surfaces, spread out tastefully in an almost impersonal manner. And everywhere, there were plants. Long, vining things draped over doorways and spilling over tabletops. Spiky succulents contrasting deliciously with flowing curtains and curving statues. Orchids in stylish pots clipped tenuously to long supports, their delicate blooms offering a solace of brightness against the dim background. It was shining and clean to the point that Aziraphale felt he was in a museum rather than a home, and it was so opposite to his own space in every way he felt himself almost overwhelmed for a moment.

Luckily, Crowley didn’t stop to notice his disorientation. He moved down the hallway past a set of dark wood stairs and out of sight, leaving Aziraphale to store his coat and suit jacket on the metal hooks by the door. Once he had regained his composure somewhat, he followed Crowley’s path down the hall towards what he assumed was the kitchen.

He was greeted by perhaps the most mouth-watering aroma he had ever had the pleasure of encountering. Crowley’s kitchen had been entirely remodeled from the rather shabby country kitchen Aziraphale remembered, and now glittered with dark slate and polished steel. On the smooth glass stovetop a large pot simmered, wafting that delicious scent from the gently tipped lid, and the smell of warm bread spilled from the oven. Crowley had worked the cork off the bottle of wine Aziraphale had brought and was letting it breathe while he rummaged for glasses.

“That smells  _ amazing, _ Crowley.” He said, breathing deep. “What is it?” 

Crowley offered a crooked smile. “Agneau à la Bourguignonne.” He replied in a much more passable French than Aziraphale had ever managed. “Lamb stew in wine sauce. Seemed like the kind of thing you might like.”

“You were most certainly right about that.” Aziraphale said with absolute sincerity. “Where did you learn to cook? That seems awfully complex.” 

Crowley shrugged, trying to appear nonchalant but obviously preening somewhat with the praise. Aziraphale couldn’t help but think that pleased was a good look for him. “Always been a hobby. It’s not too hard, honestly. I spent some time in Paris a while back, brought the recipe back with me.” 

He poured them a glass of wine each, sliding Aziraphale’s towards him across the countertop before offering a toast. “To--hmm. To me being finally unpacked, I suppose.” Aziraphale clinked his glass delicately against Crowley’s, then took a measured sip of the wine. It wasn’t the really nice stuff Crowley had brought by a few days ago, but it was the best he’d been able to find in the small village. He’d made a note to stock up on a finer vintage the next time he was in London. 

“I must say,” Aziraphale commented once the first smooth swallow had gone down, “You’ve done quite a good job of it. Not a box in sight. And your renovation job is superb--did you have it done before you moved in?” 

Crowley nodded. “Oh yeah, I’m hopeless at construction. More of a nuisance than anything if I’m honest. Did the decorating myself, though.” He glanced at the pot on the stove, then over at Aziraphale. “Would you like a tour, or are you hungry now?”

Aziraphale couldn’t deny that the stew was calling his name, but curiosity got the better of him. He beamed at Crowley. “I would love a tour, my dear.”

The large ground floor also contained a small dining area, intimately and tastefully set for two, as well as a large sitting room. Unlike the bookshelf-lined version in Aziraphale’s home, this one sported a large television and an intimidatingly large collection of speakers in all four corners. Light spilled through the doors to the back garden, where Aziraphale could just make out neat rows of raised garden beds waiting for the spring like their compatriots in the front. The first floor held Crowley’s bedroom, which they didn’t venture into despite Aziraphale’s rather ashamed curiosity. His study was just down the hall. When Aziraphale spotted the extremely ostentatious (and obviously horrendously uncomfortable) gilt throne off in a corner, Crowley blushed furiously.

“It--er--it was a joke.” He said, stammering.

“Of course.” Aziraphale answered, eyes twinkling.

Finally, they made it to the plant room. Crowley had told him about the setup he’d painstakingly created, but it hadn’t prepared him for this. Walking into the room was like entering paradise. Bright lights hanging from the ceiling illuminating the most verdant greenery Aziraphale had ever seen, and he couldn’t suppress the small “ _ oh! _ ” of wonder he let out when he first stepped over the threshold. Bright red, orange, and purple flowers filled the air with the heavy scent of sweet nectar, riotous and transcendent. He stepped close to a nearby plant that had broad, soft leaves, and traced the thick veins running along them with a delicate finger. 

“Gorgeous.” He said, hushed in his stunned awe. “Absolutely wonderful.” Again, Crowley tried and failed not to preen obviously at the praise. Aziraphale thought he saw the other man catch his breath slightly as he beamed at him, which he was sure only deepened the flush of pleasure he could feel burning his own cheeks.  _ Oh _ , he thought, somewhat absently,  _ I am in trouble. _

As they headed back down the stairs, Aziraphale spotted a little nook just out of sight of the door in which had been stashed a rather garish pot of flowers. It stood out from the carefully selected and placed specimens of the rest of the house. It almost looked like the kind of thing one might send to someone else as a gift, and Aziraphale frowned. He indicated the potted flowers with a tilt of his head as they passed by. “Someone send you flowers?” He realized that had sounded more accusatory than was strictly necessary and tacked on, “Er--awfully nice of them.”

“Hmm?” Crowley turned to look at the flowers Aziraphale had indicated. “Oh, yeah. Someone from the town left those on my veranda this morning. Welcoming me to the town or somesuch.” 

Aziraphale’s heart sunk a bit in his chest, but he swallowed against it. He certainly didn’t have a monopoly on Crowley’s time and attention; he should be proud that the community was ignoring the gossip and reaching out to their newest member. “Ah, lovely. Who sent them, do you know?”

Crowley seemed gratifyingly uninterested in the topic, answering breezily as he moved into the kitchen to start serving up their meal. “Oh, what was the name? They left a note. Carol, maybe? Clarence?”

“Claire?” Aziraphale asked, dark jealousy swirling once again beneath his chest.

“Could be.” Crowley said, not noticing Aziraphale’s sudden foul mood. “They invited me to a book club, whoever they were.” He snorted inelegantly. “Can you imagine that?  _ Me _ , in a  _ book club _ , talking to a bunch of random people about whether Heathcliff or Hamlet is the most dreamy. I think  _ not _ .” That made Aziraphale laugh, suddenly, startled out of him at the mental image. Crowley beamed at him as he ladled the stew into immaculately white bowls. Aziraphale smiled back, somewhat tremulously, ugly jealousy temporarily assuaged.

It was quickly followed by guilt. He thought back to yesterday’s conversation with Claire in his office, and the realization that he’d been hoarding Crowley’s company like a dragon greedily guarding its pile of gold. “Have you gotten out and about in the town at all, though?” He asked. “Talked to anyone? Other than me, that is.” 

Crowley frowned slightly as he donned oven mitts and removed what looked like a freshly baked French loaf out of the oven. “What would I want to do that for?” 

“Well, there are some rather nice people in town. I’m sure they’d love to get to know you--and you them, if you gave them a chance.” 

Crowley hummed thoughtfully as he carved delicately through the bread, piling the gently steaming slices together on a plate in an impressively artistic manner. “Not so sure about that, angel.” He said, finally. “I don’t really like people, as a general rule.”

Aziraphale frowned. Crowley was certainly grouchy on the outside, but he’d never given any indication that he’d done anything other than enjoy their time together. “I’m people.” He reminded him, rather stupidly.

Crowley put the bread down on a tray with the bowls of still-steaming stew and a small dish of something white Aziraphale couldn’t identify. He fixed Aziraphale with a searching look, one hand on a cocked hip and brows furrowed. Even through the sunglasses, Aziraphale felt as though he was looking right into his very soul. “No.” He said, eventually, picking up the tray and moving to go into the dining room they had passed through earlier. “You’re really not.”

They settled into the distressingly intimate arrangement Crowley had set up in the dining room, Aziraphale still reeling from Crowley’s last comment. The low lighting had the added benefit of Crowley setting his glasses aside once again, folding them carefully beside his plate, allowing Aziraphale access to the liquid depths he remembered seeing in his flickering firelight. The stew was every bit as delicious as the smell had implied; tender lamb melted on his tongue, the rich wine sauce balanced perfectly with the fragrance of the aromatics and pepper that burst onto his palette. He couldn’t help the low moan he let out as he took the first bite. His eyes slid closed in unselfconscious pleasure, the complex flavours transcendent. When he opened his eyes again, he couldn’t quite miss the way Crowley’s gaze had fixed rather heatedly onto his face. He blushed, embarrassed, then cleared his throat.

“This is quite simply the most delicious meal I’ve had in years, Crowley.” He said, sincerely. His modest life as a priest and general disinterest in cookery meant that he didn’t often indulge in his love of fine cuisine. “Thank you so much for making it.”

Crowley finally tore his eyes away from Aziraphale, obviously a task that took some doing. “‘Course, angel.” His tone was nonchalant, but the openness of his expression betrayed him. 

The white stuff in the dish turned Aziraphale had failed to identify earlier tuned out to be a creamy fromage blanc with fresh-ground pepper, which they spread generously onto the French loaf before biting into the perfectly crunchy slices. It was, in a word, sublime. 

Aziraphale found himself floating in a bubble of gentle bliss only slightly brought on by the wine. This moment, with the glorious food and even better company, was so outside of his usual reality he felt as though he had stepped across to the realm of the faerie. That would certainly explain why such a lovely and ethereal creature was gazing across the table at him with such a look of soft adoration. Crowley had finished his meal long ago, preferring to lean back and sip at his wine as Aziraphale savored every mouthful. They spoke slowly and comfortably, without hurry, letting the moment envelop them both.

After dinner they drifted effortlessly into the sitting room as though they had always expected to do so. They sat back on opposite ends of Crowley’s palatial settee, swapping stories and anecdotes. There wasn’t nearly as much wine as there had been the last time. Perhaps they were both remembering the awful consequences they’d faced the next morning, or perhaps they were simply content as they were. Either way, Aziraphale couldn’t blame alcohol for the question that spilled itself from his lips when there was next a gap in the conversation:

“Do you mind if I ask you a question?”

Crowley’s eyebrows lifted in surprise, so much more expressive when his eyes were visible. “I suppose. Can’t guarantee you an answer, though.”

Aziraphale nodded. “Your house is lovely. Truly, honestly lovely. But I can’t help but notice...” He trailed off, trying to work up the courage to carry on. Crowley nudged him, then.

“Go on.” He said. 

“Well, it’s just that. Hmm. It’s--even out here, this place must have cost a fortune. I don’t want to intrude where I’m not welcome, but... are you really a writer for a plant hobbyist magazine?” He felt ashamed of himself for prying after he’d been treated to such a lovely meal, but he had to know. He probably should have been digging for reason to stop himself from growing so desperately attached to the man. In all honesty, however, it was simple curiosity that drove him to ask it. He knew so little about the man sitting across from him, and he simply wanted to know more so desperately he could taste it. He wanted to know every inch of him.

Crowley looked into Aziraphale’s eyes for a few moments, then down at his wine. He opened his mouth a couple times to answer then shut it again, jaw working.

“Next time.” He managed eventually. “Ask me next time, and I promise I’ll answer. Okay?”

Aziraphale nodded again, understanding. 

Crowley hesitated a moment. “Do you mind if I ask a question in return?” 

Aziraphale smiled at him, softly. “Not at all, dear boy. I can almost guarantee you’ll get an answer.”

Crowley swallowed, then smiled at him a little nervously. “Why did you become a priest? I hope you don’t mind me saying so, but you don’t really... seem the type.”

“Ah.” Aziraphale mulled this over a while, swirling his wine around the bottom of his glass pensively. “My father was a deeply religious man, when I was a child. A good man, too. He passed when I was twelve.” 

“I’m sorry.” Crowley said. He looked understanding rather than pitying, making the ache that has sprung up in Aziraphale’s chest tighten further. It was both comforting and saddening to find out you weren’t alone in your lowest experiences. 

“Thank you.” He continued, “I didn’t have any other family, so I spent the remainder of my young life raised by nuns at the local orphanage. They were very good to me; they made me believe that anyone could be helped. That everyone was worth helping.” 

Crowley looked away, looking slightly uncomfortable at that. As though he couldn’t quite believe it. “And that’s why you became a priest?”

Aziraphale nodded. Crowley swallowed, eyes still averted. “Do you ever regret it?” he asked, voice barely above a whisper. “Making that choice? Not opening up that little bookshop in Soho you always wanted?” 

Aziraphale opened his mouth to answer, then closed it. “It’s... a calling, more than a profession. I like helping people. Guiding them through their pain. I’m good at it.”

“That’s not a ‘no,’” Crowley pointed out.

“No, it’s not.” Aziraphale admitted. “There are times I wonder what I would have done, if I hadn’t promised myself to the church and to God. Who I might have been. What I might have had if...” He trailed off. 

Crowley looked at him. His eyes were full of something approaching longing, and Aziraphale wasn’t so stupid that he didn't recognize it for what it was. He was certain it was the very same look of longing on his own face, reflected back at him as if from a mirror. They were in this together, now, in this wretched purgatory from which there was no escape. Not for either of them. 

After that, Crowley mercifully changed the subject. They chatted a while longer, keeping the conversation light and away from anything that might have made them ache all over again. 

Later, Crowley walked him home through the biting chill of the winter evening. They stood in front of Aziraphale’s doorway together, breath ghosting out to mingle damply under the harsh light above the door, hesitating. Crowley reached out a hand to him, curling ice-cold fingers around his warmer ones. 

“Thanks for coming over, angel.” He said, voice gruff.

“Thank you for having me.” Aziraphale answered.

They clasped their hands together as long as they could while still maintaining some level of propriety, then regretfully let them slip away. Aziraphale watched Crowley’s form retreat into the swallowing darkness, then made his way into his front entryway. He leaned with his back against the door, heart heavy, and wished very much he could be someone that he wasn’t.

[1]  _ Pray for us, O holy Mother of God, that we may be made worthy of the promises of Christ _ . From the  _ Angelus _ .

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My absolute favorite things to do as a writer:  
> -Describe the setting  
> -Describe the food  
> I hope you're as hungry reading this as I was writing it.
> 
> Thank you all so much for the love you've shown this fic! Your comments literally keep me going. Thanks also for being so patient with my slow posting schedule. Y'all're the best!


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: THIS CHAPTER MAY CONTAIN CONTENT THAT SOME PEOPLE WILL WANT TO AVOID. I try to keep things pretty vague, but we're delving into Crowley's tragic backstory (TM) and it's not particularly nice. I will say there's no mention of sexual assault or major gore. Please see chapter end notes for specific spoiler-y content warnings. If you'd like to avoid this section you will want to read through the dinner and then stop.

_ C: I have to drive into London tomorrow. Planning to stay overnight. Want to come along? _

Aziraphale stared at his phone for a solid thirty seconds before the words seemed to sink in. It was two days after their dinner at Crowley’s cottage, and they seemed to have arrived at a mutual if unspoken agreement to spend a little time away from one another. Or so Aziraphale had thought. He had assumed Crowley was in the same boat he was in; unable to think about the other without the world going all soft around the edges, much less be in each other’s presence. Better to spend a little time away to reorient. Less dangerous that way, less... tempting. This invitation was thus somewhat surprising, and not just because it came from out of the blue. 

Then again, he thought he remembered mentioning to Crowley how he had intentions of making a trip to London soon to seek out some of the tomes on his ever-growing list and to stock up on some finer wines. He wasn’t needed at St. Drogo’s the next two days, strictly speaking, and the chance of a change of scenery was extremely appealing after the long winter. His thumbs hovered over his phone keyboard a while, unsure. Eventually, he settled for:

_ A: That might be just the thing. Where were you planning to stay? _

_ C: Figured I’d get a hotel in Mayfair or Piccadilly, come back the next morning _

Aziraphale frowned. It was unlikely he’d be able to afford a room anywhere that close to the heart of the city.

_ A: I may be able to stay at an abbey nearby, if you’re willing to pick me up.  _

_ C: Don’t be daft, angel, I’ll get you a room _

_ C: Wouldn’t invite you then expect you to find your own place to kip _

Increasingly-familiar butterflies fluttered up in Aziraphale’s stomach, but he suppressed them with an almost weary sigh. It was an absolutely terrible idea. He should say ‘no’ and make the trip himself some other time.

_ A: That sounds wonderful, dear boy. When do you intend to leave tomorrow? _

Aziraphale spent a rather shameful amount of time trying to decide what to pack. After all, he didn’t know quite what he would need, and the nervous way his heart fluttered in his chest at the prospect of spending a whole day with Crowley wasn’t helping. He set aside an outfit for the morning and a fresh set of clothes for the return journey, though it would likely take a practiced eye to see any difference between them. Then there were books, of course. Those less valued or repeat tomes he intended to trade in for more valuable texts, and a few for light reading. Just in case. After some deliberation he also packed up his nicest suit. He wasn’t quite sure why it seemed like the thing to do; Crowley hadn’t mentioned any intention to go out for a nice dinner or anything. Still, it niggled at the back of his mind until he pulled it out of his closet. The suit was a soft off-white, lighter even than much of the rest of his wardrobe, though not so bright that it became blinding. He topped the carefully folded cotton with a matching tie and pocket square. Blue, like his eyes. Gentle fingers traced over the soft fabric, nearly pristine with how little he’d had cause to use it over the years. With any luck, it would still fit.

He spent some time in the evening making a list of the things he intended to go looking for while they were in London. Crowley intended to drive in early in the morning and would be occupied much of the day, leaving Aziraphale quite to his own devices. He wasn’t concerned; he’d spent time in London as a boy and while he had attended divinity school, and he knew the city as well as anyone who didn’t actually live there might. He had plenty of old haunts to pass the time in. If nothing else, he could go find his favorite bench in St. James’ park and feed the ducks.

Afterwards, he found himself wandering rather aimlessly through his cottage. He had finished his latest read that morning, and found that none of the selections in his ever-mountainous “to be read” pile were calling his name at the moment. Idle fingers traced gently along the spines of books in consideration as he moved slowly from the sitting room to his office, following the winding bookshelves, white-winged tea mug leaving wispy trails of steam in the still air as he moved [1]. No matter how hard he tried to focus on them, the titles on the spines seemed to blur and fade into something unrecognizable as his fingers glided over each in turn. He moved on.

In his office, his eyes fell once again upon the simple carved wooden cross that sat atop the mantel. He frowned at it. It had been his father’s, one of the only possessions of his that Aziraphale still had. Time had taken its toll on it in the form of softened corners and scuff marks, hidden but never forgotten under the polish that Aziraphale carefully administered every couple of years. It was the only act of service he had left for the father that had done his best in what little time he’d had, and Aziraphale had kept up the quiet tradition with a pious solemnity. Seeing it now, though, it prickled at his mind a bit. His faith had weighed heavily on him, these last few weeks. Last few years. He noted absently that the cross was due for a clean and polish again soon. The worst of the dust had been cleared away in his fit of zealous cleanliness last week, but a thin film had once again settled over it. 

His mind flitted back to Crowley’s home from two nights before, how it had glittered spotlessly as though it were a space that someone visited rather than one that was lived in. He supposed it was mostly due to the fact that Crowley had just moved there, not yet having had the time to settle himself into the bones of the place, but he had the sneaking suspicion that if he were to visit again in five years’ time it would be just the same. Perhaps it was just who they were. Crowley reminded him of the old-style magicians in a way, who would use mirrors and smoke and all manner of misdirection to hide what was really going on. Distract your audience enough with the flash and the glamour and the blood-stained spikes on your armour, and they’d never even notice the pain in your eyes. Never notice that the spikes pointed inwards, too. By contrast, Aziraphale’s home hid nothing about him. It laid him bare. He walked its messy corridors as we walked the jumbled passageways of his own heart, never as neat and tidy as he knew they were supposed to be. The dust was a reminder of his permanence, his resistance to change. The settling fate he had chosen for himself, long ago.

He picked up the cross, rubbing thumbs carefully across its front as he had done in more tumultuous times throughout his life. Then, he set it aside and picked up the bible that sat underneath it. The paper crinkled threateningly with age and with memory. These pages had offered him guidance many times, his friend when he felt out at sea. At times his only friend. He flipped through them now absently, not quite sure what he was looking for, until some unknown instinct told him to stop. He smoothed a hand over the passage he’d landed on, not really taking it in for a few moments:

_ Ask and it will be given to you,  _ it read. The words were familiar, but now they settled uncomfortably somewhere in his ribs.  _ Seek, and you will find; knock, and the door will be opened to you. For everyone who asks, receives, and the one who seeks, finds; and to the one who knocks, the door will be opened.  _ [2] __

Aziraphale stared at the page for a long time. 

\----------------

The next morning Crowley pulled around to pick Aziraphale up at his cottage in a car that looked fresh out of an old black-and-white film. It was obviously lovingly looked after for such an old automobile, not a single dent or scratch marring its immaculately shiny surface. The weather had turned cloudy and cold again, threatening snow it was unlikely to ever actually bring, causing Aziraphale to shiver the moment he stepped out from his cottage with his rather lumpy bag. His breath billowed into the early morning chill, barely visible in the light of the sun that was just peeking its head out from the horizon.

Crowley hopped out of the driver’s seat to help him stow the case the moment the car was parked. Aziraphale noted that he looked much more formal than any other time they’d been together; precisely tailored and pressed trousers had replaced the usual black denims, though these upgraded substitutes were just as implausibly tight. His fashionable slim coat, obviously designer sunglasses, and aggressively styled hair completed the look. Crowley helped Aziraphale heft his suitcase into the trunk.

“What did you  _ pack _ in this, angel?” He complained, though without any real bite behind the words. “We’re going for a day trip, not a bloody African safari.” 

“Just the necessary items, I assure you.” Aziraphale responded airily, not bothering to hide his amused smile at Crowley’s grumpiness. He knew Crowley wasn’t used to rising early. This disgruntled routine was hardly threatening; if anything, it reminded Aziraphale of a cat that had been unexpectedly woken from a nap. 

Crowley grumbled, but shuffled around the side of the car to open Aziraphale’s door for him anyway. Aziraphale’s smile widened to a beatific grin. “Oh,  _ thank you, _ my dear.” He slid into the left seat and let Crowley stand there a moment while he settled himself in, the other man seeming to need to process a while before he came to himself with a start and shut the door [3]. The smell of old leather and polish mixed pleasantly with Crowley’s cologne in the car’s cabin. Aziraphale took a deep and unabashed breath while Crowley came over to the driver’s side, letting the comfortable scent wash over him.

They pulled out of the short drive and took off down the narrow lane that led out of Norbrook. The little collection of cottages was sleepy at the best of times, but at this still-dark hour a hushed blanket seemed to have settled over the whole village. Only the sheep, dotting the damp emerald landscape in little clumps and filling the air with a lazy bleating, gave any indication of life from where Aziraphale gazed out the window.

Crowley cleared his throat as they passed the last of the trailing houses, plunging them into an endless landscape of rolling green pastures. “I brought some tea for you, here.” He said, passing Aziraphale a thermos. 

“Oh, good! I quite forgot to bring any.” Aziraphale beamed, taking the sleek black thing from Crowley’s hands and smelling the warm citrus of Earl Grey wafting from within. He was grateful; Crowley’s car was beautiful, but the older model’s heating was no match for the frosty morning. He curled chill fingers around the thermos to try and eke out any warmth he could. 

“There’s scones, too.” Crowley indicated a box that was perched rather precariously on the console. “No jam or anything, though.”

“Goodness!” Aziraphale reached for the box and peered inside. “Did you make them yourself? You needn’t have gone to all the trouble for me, dear.” 

Aziraphale sensed rather than saw Crowley’s blush, and he wished suddenly that he could see the other man’s eyes. “I didn’t make them, unfortunately.” Crowley’s voice was tinged with embarrassment, as though not producing fresh, home-baked scones was some kind of grievous social faux pas. “They were left on my porch yesterday, like those flowers were. Saw them on my way to grab you.” 

Aziraphale tried to suppress the slight stab of jealousy that caught in his chest at those words, turning his head back to the rolling countryside to hide any flicker of it that might have shown on his face. “Ah, I see.” He said, trying to maintain his jovial tone. “And did the sender invite you to a book club again, or was it just a welcoming gift?” 

“Er...” Crowley made a drawn out noise with his throat that sounded as if he wanted to say something but couldn’t quite find the words. “To be honest, it had a calling card on it but I... I threw it away.”

Aziraphale huffed a startled laugh. “Not very neighborly of you, dear boy.” He didn’t quite manage to sound teasing rather than just fond. Crowley shrugged, smiling, and kept driving towards the city. 

Crowley went a little too fast for Aziraphale’s taste, occasionally causing him to grasp for the safety handle above his head on particularly speedy turns, but otherwise the ride was fairly uneventful. They spent the majority of it in a comfortable bubble of quiet broken only by the occasional hushed comment or question.

Aziraphale noticed, however, that as they drew nearer to London Crowley seemed to draw inwards on himself. His shoulders bowed as though some unseen weight were settling upon them, his fingers going white where they gripped the steering wheel tightly. His responses to Aziraphale’s gentle questions grew more terse as well, eventually causing Aziraphale to cast him a worried glance.

“I don’t mean to pry, Crowley.” Aziraphale started, hesitantly. “But I can’t help but notice that something’s upsetting you. Are you anxious about whatever you’re going into the city for?” In his formal clothes, Aziraphale wondered if he was going into a solicitor’s for some meeting or even into a court date. He paused. “Would you...like to talk about it?” 

Crowley seemed to think about this for a moment, jaw working. Eventually he took a careful breath and let it out again, making a clear effort to let some of the tension keeping his wire frame taut drain away with it. “It’s--” His voice cracked with tension and he cleared his throat, breathing again. “It’s not that. I’m actually coming in to speak to my publisher, sign a few things. Nothing too big.”

Aziraphale blinked. “Your publisher? At the plant hobbyist magazine?”

Crowley smiled at him, genuine if a bit strained. “No. I do actually write for a plant hobbyist magazine, I wasn’t lying, but that’s more of a hobby than anything. No, I write... er, books. Actually.” 

Aziraphale’s brows drew down, confused. “That’s wonderful, obviously, but why on earth would you feel the need to hide that from me? You know how I feel about literature.”

Crowley’s voice was strained now, and Aziraphale imagined he could see a bit of a blush just barely pinking his cheeks. “I’m... not sure I’d call it ‘literature,’ angel.” He cleared his throat again. “It’s more--well, it’s--oh, bugger.” He sighed, short and rough, then reached into the back seat. A series of rustling noises seemed to indicate a bag being sorted through, the car swerving slightly as Crowley’s attention was drawn heart-stoppingly away from the road, before a large stack of paper was being thrust unceremoniously into Aziraphale’s lap.

Aziraphale stared at it a few moments, not quite sure what he was looking at.

_ PASSIONS AT THE CROSSROADS _ _ BY A. J. ASHTORETH _ the top page proclaimed, proudly. It appeared to be a manuscript. Aziraphale blinked, then carefully opened the stack to a random page and read a few lines. 

_ “No. I won’t!” Charlie says, but makes no move to step away from the circle. He’s frozen to the spot. _

_ “Oh, come on.” The demon purrs, pressing himself as close to Charlie as the binding circle will allow. “You know you want to. I’d make it so good, Charlie, everything you ever wanted. All you have to do is say ‘yes.’”  _

_ Charlie shivers, and not just because the cold wind whipping down the dirt road around him. The demon is so alluring, so persuasive, dripping raw sexuality and lust so powerful he swears he can smell it in the air. He feels his resolve weaken. “What would you want in return?” He says, voice shaking.  _

_ The demon’s smile widens, showing off sharp canines that glint in the light from the lonely street lamp. _

_ “You, Charlie.” The demon’s voice is as smooth as velvet, as rich as wine. “Just you.” _

Aziraphale closed the manuscript, clearing his throat to hide his mild embarrassment. “I... see.” He said, cheeks pink. 

Crowley’s face was turned firmly towards the road, purposely avoiding Aziraphale’s gaze. He had tensed up again, obviously prepared for Aziraphale to react with disgust or disdain.

“Well, I see why you might have been shy about sharing this with me.” Aziraphale kept his tone carefully neutral. “I don’t see anything wrong with it, though. Actually, I’m rather impressed you’ve managed to do so well for yourself. You must be quite good.” Secretly, he tucked the pseudonym away in his mind for later perusal. Would the bookstore in town carry such titles?

Crowley turned in the front seat to gape at him, as if unable to help himself, causing Aziraphale to sputter and point back to the road that was still rushing towards them at ungodly speeds. “Do you mean that?” Crowley managed weakly once he’d gotten the car back under control. “You’re not... bothered by it?”

Aziraphale smiled softly at him, though he wasn’t sure if Crowley could see. “Not at all, dear boy. I know I’m a priest, but I’m not here to judge anyone. Merely guide those who wish it upon the path they seek.”

Crowley’s shoulders seemed to relax at that, and he mirrored Aziraphale’s smile with a small one of his own. 

Before long the rolling green hills gave way to scattered neighborhoods and businesses, which in turn gave way to the dense construction of the city. They had managed to hit before the worst of the traffic (no doubt Crowley’s plan all along), and so made it into the heart of the city with as much expediency as could be reasonably expected for London at any time of day. Crowley pulled the Bentley over along a Soho street at Aziraphale’s request.

“Where shall I meet you, later?” Aziraphale asked. “And when? I didn’t ask when you’ll be done at your publisher’s.” 

Crowley hummed thoughtfully. “I don’t know exactly, though it shouldn’t be too late.” He said. “Tell you what, we can check in at the hotel as early as two. If you’re done with your shopping you can go drop off your things and I’ll meet you there. I’ll text you the address.”

Aziraphale agreed and stepped out of the car, waving away Crowley’s motion to get out and help him with his bag. He hefted it from the trunk and gave a little wave as he watched the Bentley pull recklessly away from the curb and back into traffic. 

The case was quite heavy, and he decided to divest himself of some of the heavy tomes first thing, before he dislocated a shoulder.  _ Well, _ he thought,  _ first thing after a little snack _ . It wasn’t until he had walked around the corner towards a little patisserie he remembered from his school days that he froze mid-stride. Crowley had told him about the publisher’s and about his role as an author, but had never answered Aziraphale’s question about why he had been so nervous driving into London. Cursing under his breath for allowing himself to be so diverted, he vowed to get back to the subject later and began making his way through the bustling morning streets.

\---------------

Aziraphale squinted at the address displayed on his phone screen, frowning.  _ 150 Piccadilly _ . Why did that sound so familiar? He pushed his way carefully through sidewalks now bursting with people going about their afternoons, clutching his (much lightened) case to his side. He’d managed to acquire a second-edition Wilde with the books he’d traded in as well as nearly all of his savings, and it wouldn’t do to lose it now. 

He made his leisurely way through narrow avenues with all sorts of expensive shops rising up on either side. Even the blustery day hadn’t put a dent in his enjoyment of the city, all the people and the  _ life _ here that seemed to permeate the skin from all sides. He knew he’d get tired of it eventually. Back in his school days he’d only been able to take small doses of the city, always half longing to get back to his small but comfortable room at the divinity school. For now, though, he took in the sights and sounds of concentrated humanity with a soft glee.

In an especially dense shopping district he took a right onto Piccadilly Street, then stopped dead. A large stone building stood a little ways ahead and across the street in the place where his destination should be. It rose intimidatingly into the sky, old-school architecture looming over the passersby with an ease that suggested it had been doing so for a very long time. He looked down at his phone, checking the address, then returned his gaze to the plaque posted in polished bronze on the wide edifice of the place:  _ 150 Piccadilly. _ He stared at the monumental bulk of the building. He stared at the flags waving discordantly jauntily in the cold breeze, at the judgemental stone faces carved into the reliefs. 

Then, he called Crowley.

“Did you book us rooms at the  _ Ritz? _ ” He asked, voice almost desperate. 

“D’you like it?” Crowley drawled across the line, obviously quite pleased with himself. Aziraphale didn’t think he had ever  _ heard  _ a smirk. “Thought you might. Go on in, angel, they’ll have your name at the desk.”

“But that’s not--I mean I can’t just--”

“You can, angel. It’s all right, it’s on me, remember?” A voice said something too quietly for Aziraphale to understand on the other end of the line. Crowley made a noncommittal noise of assent in response, then turned his attention back to Aziraphale: “Look, I’m almost done here. Why don’t you go freshen up and I’ll meet you there for tea, yeah? The full experience, prissy little cakes and all. Ta.” And he hung up, leaving Aziraphale sputtering at his mobile. 

He stuffed the wretched thing back into his pocket, then looked nervously up at the still-looming building. Well, there was nothing for it, he supposed. The valets had started shooting him curious glances from the front portico; it certainly wouldn’t do to stand here like a loon any longer. Steps a bit shaky but determined, he made his way across the street and towards the sleek glass entrance.

The impeccably dressed gentleman at the front desk had taken his name and whisked him into an elevator, insisting on carrying Aziraphale’s bag. Any other time Aziraphale might have protested this what with the bag’s precious contents, but he found himself disoriented enough that he let the porter slip the thing from his hands without a fuss. The elevator took them all the way to the top of the building, spitting them out in the middle of a maze of identical carpeted hallways that the porter navigated him through with ease. Eventually they arrived in front of a door marked  _ The Royal Suite _ [4] in a script so incomprehensible you knew it had to be expensive. The porter handed him his bag back with a key card, bowed deeply, and swept back off down the hallway. Aziraphale looked at the door nervously, still not entirely sure this wasn’t all some great misunderstanding. He fumbled slightly with the card before sliding it through the reader. The light turned green, and he held his breath as he turned the handle. 

The suite was beyond imagining. The door opened into a small sitting area more akin to the parlor of a mansion than any hotel room Aziraphale had ever been in, gilt trim and red satin oozing decadence from every corner. Beyond was a dining area large enough for six already set with fine china and delicately folded napkins, the light spilling in from the wide window on the far wall glistening off polished silver. He took it all in for a moment from just inside the doorway. It didn’t feel real, somehow, though he certainly never would have made it this far if it wasn’t. It felt like a fairy story. He spotted a door he suspected to be a bedroom, and he couldn’t quite resist the urge to tip-toe across the carpet towards it as though someone might catch him in a place he wasn’t supposed to be. 

The bedroom was every bit as impressive as the rest of the suite. It was massive, for one thing, an almost sinful indulgence in a city like this one. The bed was large enough to fit four grown people comfortably and was draped in lavish silks which cascaded down from the ceiling. Oak furniture and gold trim carried the feeling of decadence through from the rest of the suite, along with the plush carpet.

It was the bathtub in the attached en-suite that really got to him, though; it had  _ jets _ . 

Nearly a full hour later, he reluctantly climbed out of the swimming-pool-like tub and wrapped himself in one of the ridiculously fluffy complimentary dressing gowns he’d found behind the bathroom door. He bustled out to the bedroom again, humming happily to himself. He’d found a clothes iron in a narrow cupboard during a brief poke-around earlier and he set himself to pressing the nice suit he’d brought with him. It was horribly wrinkled from being packed in his bag for the better part of a day, but he’d laid it out on the bed before his bath and now he pressed out every crease and wrinkle with exacting care. It wouldn’t do to look sloppy for tea at the Ritz, after all.

Finally he donned his freshly pressed suit and ran fingers through his hopeless curls, only mostly getting them to lie with some sort of order. He spritzed a little of his favorite cologne. He looked upon himself in the mirror and decided that it was as good as it was going to get. 

Then, he went to see if Crowley had arrived. 

Crowley was lounging back on a settee in the sitting room when Aziraphale emerged, his eyes closed and his posture utterly relaxed. A device laid flat on his chest was quietly speaking into the hush of the parlor, a narrator’s animated voice reciting the contents of a book Aziraphale didn’t immediately recognize. He stirred when he heard Aziraphale’s door open, smiling and moving to pause the audiobook. “You sing in the bath, you know.” He started, chuckling to himself. “It’s actually quite ador--” He turned and caught sight of Aziraphale then, and his mouth closed on whatever he’d been about to say with a click of teeth. He blinked for a few seconds with his mouth falling open and closing again like a particularly startled fish.

Aziraphale fidgeted, already uncomfortable in such well-to-do clothes and made more uncomfortable by Crowley’s suddenly intense scrutiny. “Is--Does it look all right? I haven’t worn it in a few years and it’s a bit tighter than I’d like, but--”

“No!” Crowley interrupted him. “I mean, no, it looks fine. You look good, angel.” 

“Oh.” Aziraphale found himself blushing a bit. “Well. Thank you, my dear. Shall we, er, get a wiggle on?”

“Er, yeah.” Crowley cleared his throat before leveraging himself carefully up from the settee. Aziraphale noticed that his face was also a little flushed. “Yeah, let’s go.” He paused. “‘Get a wiggle on?’ Really, angel?”

“Oh, hush.” Aziraphale patted his breast pocket to make sure the key card was still there. Finding it still nestled safely where he’d placed it, he stepped forward to tuck Crowley’s arm rather boldly through his own and used it to steer Crowley towards the door. “You promised me tea at the Ritz, my dear, and I intend to collect.”

Crowley made absolutely no move to resist.

As he had expected, the dining room was a level of unabashed extravagance that wouldn’t have been out of place in Buckingham Palace itself. Delicate notes from a live pianist and the soft, hushed tones of the patrons enhanced the hall’s vaguely unreal quality, as though they had stepped through into a scene from one of Jane Austen’s novels rather than into a restaurant located in the here and now. 

The maître d' took Crowley's name and showed them to their place at a small table in the center of the wide hall. They chatted amiably as their waiter brought them a pot of perfectly brewed tea and crisp ginger biscuits. Aziraphale nearly wept when the menu came around, feeling altogether overwhelmed by choosing between so many things he had always dreamed of trying. Crowley solved his dilemma by ordering a selection of small plates that covered most of the entrees he most desperately wanted to taste, and a few others besides. As they made their way through the tea and biscuits Aziraphale couldn’t keep the dopey smile off his face for the life of him.

They were brought an absolutely impeccable bottle of white wine as an apéritif, and Aziraphale raised his glass in a sort of toast. “I don’t know what to say, my dear, I really don’t.” Crowley clinked his glass gently against Aziraphale’s, lips curling in a mixture of smug satisfaction and genuine delight. “I never thought I would be sitting here, enjoying this. I must admit I feel quite spoiled.”

“What can I say, angel?” Crowley brought the flute to his lips and took a delicate sip. “Spoiled is a good look on you.” 

Aziraphale was saved from saying something very,  _ very  _ stupid to that by the arrival of the first course. It was a small salad, fresh rocket and raspberries, and paired with the wine perfectly. The soup that came after was a warm butternut, rich but small enough to only whet the appetite. Then, the main course. It had to be carried in by no less than three waiters; nearly twenty small plates in total and each and every one of them a delight. Aziraphale was in (metaphorical) heaven. He took delicate forkfuls of spiced lamb, perfectly roasted fish, wine-poached pears. After each and every bite he let the flavors wash over him, tipping his head back and moaning softly before diving in for another. He had never experienced such a wonderful meal and he intended to savor it.

Crowley seemed to enjoy what he ate but grew full much faster than Aziraphale, preferring to sip at his wine and watch Aziraphale quietly through the barrier of his sunglasses. They had dined together enough now that Aziraphale had grown quite used to it. He didn’t bother trying to insist that Crowley partake of some of his favorites, but merely let himself bask in this perfect moment together, each in their own ways. 

The spell of relative silence that had settled between them while they ate was broken only when Crowley asked after a dessert menu from the waiter. His voice was hoarse, which made Aziraphale knit his brows in some concern, but Crowley’s stiff posture told him it was better not to ask. 

Aziraphale ordered the panna cotta and Crowley the angel food cake, though Aziraphale ended up eating most of both of them by the end. It wasn’t until they were leaned back in their seats, sipping at truly exquisite coffees and enjoying the pianist’s skillful negotiation of one of Chopin’s more delicate nocturnes, that Aziraphale worked up the courage to say what he’d been thinking about the whole day:

“My offer from this morning still stands, you know.” He pointedly didn’t look at Crowley, posture still relaxed and attention directed at the wide windows beyond the pianist.

Crowley turned to look at him, face drawn in obvious confusion despite the sunglasses. “Your offer?”

“To talk about whatever it was that was bothering you. About coming to London.” Aziraphale clarified. He felt rather than saw the way Crowley tensed up beside him and sighed internally. He’d been trying to avoid making Crowley feel cornered or uncomfortable, but it seems he hadn’t been successful. “Only if you’d like to, of course. If you don’t we can just sit here, enjoy the music and the dessert. Go light the fireplace in the sitting room upstairs and get some reading done. Have a perfectly pleasant evening.”

To his surprise, Crowley didn’t immediately brush off his offer or deny that he had been perturbed at all. He still radiated discomfort from Aziraphale’s side, but he seemed to be contemplating his options rather than preparing to throw angry words at Aziraphale for his prying.

“It’s...a long story.” He started, softly, after a prolonged silence. “And not a very pleasant one. I’ve never really... told anyone. About it all.” 

Aziraphale could no longer resist the urge to look over at him, and his breath caught in his throat at what he saw. Crowley was twisting his napkin in his lap, long fingers pressing creases into the fine fabric. His face was pinched, vulnerable, simultaneously more open and more drawn than he had ever seen it. Aziraphale reached out to gently loosen Crowley’s grip on the napkin, taking one hand in his own and giving it a soft squeeze.

“I’ve got time.” His voice was low, gentle. “All the time in the world.” 

Crowley took in a deep breath and released it slowly. His grip tightened somewhat where their hands were clasped together, though Aziraphale wasn’t sure if the squeeze was a return of his own comforting gesture or out of unconscious anxiety. Perhaps it didn’t matter. He nodded either way, short and silent, before letting their fingers slip apart.

Crowley flagged down their waiter and had the meal added to their room tab. He hesitated for a moment, then ordered another bottle of wine to carry back with them. The way this day was going, they’d likely need it. He cradled the bottle on one hip and offered his arm to Aziraphale, who took it with a gentle smile. Together they navigated the labyrinthine hallways back to their suite with only the slightest wine-tinted wobble in their steps. Aziraphale felt extremely aware of every breath Crowley took and of the beating of his own heart beneath his ribs; both beat out a nervous rhythm, each in time with the other. 

Once they had gotten back to the Royal Suite Aziraphale fussed over the large marble fireplace in the sitting room, more to give Crowley time to work out some of his jitters than anything. It was an old-fashioned thing, not one of those gas-powered monstrosities that came on with a switch, and he happily piled different sizes of wood from a provided pile onto the wrought-iron grate under the flue. By the time he had applied the match and gently stoked the little flame to life Crowley had perched himself onto the same settee as earlier. One of his legs bounced in a manner seemingly out of his control, but he was sitting and he had opened the bottle of wine, so Aziraphale considered that a win.

He removed his suit jacket and settled on the other end of the sofa from Crowley, accepting a glass of wine from slightly trembling fingers. Then, he waited. The fire cast a warm and delightful glow over the room, making it seem less garish and more homey. He let his eyes drift around at the various furnishings and objets d’art arranged tastefully throughout the room while he took slow sips of his wine. It wouldn’t do to rush Crowley now, not when he was so close to trusting Aziraphale. Such trust was not something Aziraphale would tarnish easily. 

He heard another slow exhale to his left. “How is it we always end up like this?” Crowley’s voice was tired and low.

“Like what, my dear?” 

Some fidgeting as Crowley adjusted his position on the sofa. “Like... like we’re in some sort of drama. Heroines in one of those old books you like so much where they all sit around talking about their  _ feelings _ rather than going and moving the bloody plot along.”

Aziraphale recognized the deflection as the self-defense mechanism it was and didn’t let it move him. Crowley hadn’t removed his sunglasses, though the sun had gone down enough that only a dim glow poured in from the wide windows. He was nervous and trying to hide it. Aziraphale wouldn’t begrudge him his safety net, but he also very obviously wanted to talk about whatever it was that was disturbing him; he just didn’t know how. 

“I believe,” Aziraphale began, contemplating each word before he said it, “it’s because this isn’t one of those tales. There is no plot to move along, no narrative. Only us. And sitting around talking about our  _ feelings _ is what friends do. When they care about one another.”

Crowley held his gaze through the glasses for a solid few seconds, his expression unreadable. “Is that what we are, angel? Friends?”

Another deflection, but not one that could be so easily dismissed. Aziraphale swallowed, throat working as he tried to sort through the mess of emotions that question dredged up for him, trying to balance on the knife’s edge of what was honest and what would be the best thing to say. “I’d like to think so.” He managed, quietly, after a few moments of silence. “If you’ll have me.”

Crowley let out a slow breath. He reached up and removed his ever-present sunglasses before running a hand over his face, scratching idly against the beginnings of fuzz on his chin. He didn’t put the glasses back on, but he didn’t turn back to look at Aziraphale either. When he finally spoke, his voice was hushed, almost too quiet for Aziraphale to hear:

“My family was religious. Not like you, though, or your dad. They were... extreme.  _ Zealotus _ . The word of God wasn’t just scripture, it was--it was  _ law. _ Everything they did, everything they said, it had to be perfect in the eyes of the Lord. Including us.” His lips flickered in what might have been a smile if it hadn’t been so weighted down with pain. “Oh, yes. They were fruitful and they multiplied. There were more than a dozen of us by the time I left. And we were  _ perfect. _ If we knew what was good for us, anyway.”

Long fingers clenched and unclenched around the stem of the wine glass. Aziraphale ached to reach out and take them in his own once again, but wasn’t sure if the gesture would be welcomed or not. Crowley seemed to have drifted off into his story, letting the words flow out as if they had been weighing him down for many years, and Aziraphale didn’t want to disturb that delicate peace.

“I didn’t... I hated it. I wanted to know what was out there in the world. Beyond the walls of the chapel. Beyond all of it. One of my school friends used to smuggle me books, which I wasn’t allowed other than the bible, and they made me bold. Or maybe that was just me. I asked too many questions, talked back too many times. Eventually I was told in... no uncertain terms to leave, and to never come back.” The tremble in his voice told Aziraphale everything he needed to know about that ‘conversation.’

“How old were you?” Aziraphale couldn’t help himself. He was enraptured with this image of a young Crowley, skinny and neglected and yet so full of righteous fire. 

Crowley glanced up at him, seemingly almost surprised he was still there. “Fifteen.” 

“Oh, Crowley.” He no longer bothered to resist his persistent instinct and laced his fingers through one of Crowley’s where it lay limply in his lap. 

Crowley gave him another of those odd half-smiles before continuing, his voice gravelly with strain but no longer hesitant. “I had just enough money to buy a bus ticket to London, so that’s what I did. Got here with the clothes on my back and a stolen copy of  _ Fahrenheit 451 _ and nothing else. I had no money and no contacts, but I was  _ free _ . Despite...everything that happened, I don’t regret that.”

Aziraphale shook his head, mutely. He wasn’t sure if he was agreeing with Crowley or trying to clear the air of the weight of old pain. Either way, Crowley didn’t seem to notice.

Now that he’d started speaking it was like the floodgates had opened. Words tumbled from Crowley’s mouth, falling under their own weight, each one making Aziraphale’s heart sink further in his friend’s despair. “Thing is, I didn’t know anything about how to live on my own. I didn’t have anywhere to go. I slept rough for a while, begging or bartering for what I needed. It couldn’t last, though. I started to get desperate, to lose hope. Which is when they found me.”

Aziraphale frowned. “They?”

Crowley tried to bring his glass to his lips, only to find it empty. He blinked at it, surprised, then leaned forward to top them both off. When he’d settled back, he continued:

“They offered me a place to sleep and regular hot meals, which at the time felt like a miracle. Maybe it was, I dunno. They didn’t tell me who they were at the time, and I didn’t ask. Took me to a big fancy house with lots of other people about. Gave me my own bedroom, with my own bed. Didn’t even have that at home.” He sounded almost wistful at that, eyes glassy with a faraway look about them, which surprised Aziraphale. Then again, he supposed sometimes even the dimmest of lights could be what stands between you and the darkness. “It was good, at first. I did little jobs for them in exchange for my keep; cooking, cleaning, and the like. I didn’t mind. Nobody asked who I was or where I came from, and my free time was my own. But it--it wasn’t...”

He paused, throat working as if caught on whatever he had been about to say. Aziraphale waited, sensing that Crowley needed a moment to get over the swell of anxiety that threatened to overtake him. Time only seemed to make things worse, though; he watched as Crowley’s breathing picked up uncontrollably, unable to overcome the emotions gripping him, and decided an intervention was necessary. Moving slowly to give the other man plenty of time to object or draw away, he slipped Crowley’s wine from his shaking fingers before placing both of their glasses on the little table beside the sofa. Then, he gently brought his arms up to wrap around Crowley in a tight embrace. He’d only intended to offer some small bit of solace, a way to ground Crowley in the present and let him know Aziraphale was still with him, but it seemed to have more of an effect than he’d anticipated. Crowley stiffened for a few heart-stopping moments before melting, sagging limply into Aziraphale’s arms. He rested his head against Aziraphale’s shoulder. Aziraphale could feel hot tears through the fabric of his dress shirt but found that he didn’t mind at all.

“You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to.” He said, tentatively bringing a hand up to run soothing fingers through Crowley’s down-soft curls. 

Crowley’s reply was partially muffled where it was smothered against Aziraphale’s shoulder. “I know. I want to. I need to.” 

Aziraphale simply held him. One hand made soothing circles along Crowley’s back as the other kept his face buried in Aziraphale’s shoulder until his heavy breaths began to become slow and even. He didn’t pull away from the embrace as he continued, warm hands pressing hopeless creases where they clung to his shirt:

“It wasn’t until later that I began to suspect the kind of people they were. They started to ask more and more from me. Errands, at first, then...favors. Tiny steps. So little I barely felt myself moving until I looked back and realized how far I’d traveled from anything like solid ground. Just going with them on their little “outings.” Just keeping an eye out for the police. Just driving the getaway car. Just... All with the justification that they were keeping me alive, keeping me off the streets. Which they were. I didn’t know what else to do, I was too afraid to strike out on my own. Until suddenly I reached the point even I couldn't stand anymore. One step too far, one sin too many.”

He swallowed, and Aziraphale felt the bob of Crowley ‘s adam’s apple where it was pressed flush against him. “They were my friends right up until the moment I tried to back out. Then I found out who they really were. They pulled out a list of everything I’d done. How could I leave them when they had proof of all these crimes I’d committed, people I’d hurt? They could pin it all on me, all of it. I couldn't run, couldn’t fight it. I was theirs. Caught in another trap just pretending to be my family.”

Aziraphale squeezed his arms around Crowley, finding his own eyes prickling hot with tears. He could feel the sense of loss, of desperation, of loneliness. His fingers flexed where they gripped the back of Crowley’s suit jacket. He felt a hot flush of anger deep in his belly, and had the sudden unfamiliar desire to perform a little bit of violence. “What did you do?” His voice sounded foreign to his own ears, low and scratchy.

“What else could I do?” Crowley sounded tired now, drained and boneless where he was still slumped against Azirapahle. “I knew they’d be able to find me even if I ran, so I stayed. I worked for them. I did... I did things I’ll regret for the rest of my life. Things I’ll never be forgiven for. Saved my own sorry arse at the expense of countless other people’s. Sold my soul to the devil to survive.”

“You didn’t have a choice.”

“I had every choice.” His voice was sharp, but the sting was all inwards. “I chose wrong.”

Aziraphale wanted to insist, to argue, but realised now was not the time. Crowley needed to get his guilt off his chest before he would ever be able to address it. There would be time for healing later, once the weight was lifted. “Alright.” He said, gently. “Then what happened?”

Crowley carefully extricated himself from Aziraphale’s embrace, seemingly calm enough now to slump bonelessly along the arm of the sofa on his own. Aziraphale missed his warmth immediately. “I worked for them for years. Kept my head down, tried to keep off their radar as much as possible. After a while they started letting me have little bits of freedom. Money, a car, eventually a flat. That part was nice. I’d never lived on my own before.” Another tired, lopsided smile. “That’s when I started writing, actually. Suddenly I had all that time alone. I got bored.”

Aziraphale snorted inelegantly at that, then clasped his hand to his mouth with wide eyes. “I am so sorry, my dear! That wasn’t--that is, it’s not funny, I just--”

“It’s alright, angel.” The smile playing around Crowley’s lips this time was still tired, but it spoke of genuine amusement. “It is pretty funny, actually. Most of my best and  _ worst _ decisions have been made out of boredom if I’m honest.” 

Aziraphale settled back against his own arm of the sofa, still pink with embarrassment. “Still, it was quite rude of me. Do go on.”

Crowley rolled his eyes, but continued: 

“Well. Once they started to trust me a little more, it was easy to start...collecting things. Evidence. I kept a journal detailing what we did, when, and who all was involved. Saved all the money I could, too, which wasn’t nothing. I would’ve kept it all in a safe à la  _ Bond _ but I didn’t have one. Kept it in a biscuit tin in the back of a cupboard instead.”

Again, Aziraphale couldn’t quite suppress the small chuckle that was forced out of him at that. He strongly suspected Crowley of trying to ease his discomfort with humor, a theory made stronger by Crowley’s wide grin, but didn’t have the heart to call him out on it. He  _ did  _ give him a bit of a stern look, though, which seemed to just amuse Crowley more.

“Hey, it worked! Anyway, after nearly a decade I had the evidence I needed on all the major players. I waited until I knew I could slip away unnoticed and took it all to Scotland Yard. Said I’d do them all in if I could go free, wash my hands clean of the whole business. With a little luck and a decent lawyer, they agreed. Spent some time in protective custody while they rounded ‘em all up and walked away.”

“Surely it wasn’t as simple as all that?” Crowley shrugged one shoulder, nonchalant. 

“It was as simple as it was ever going to be. I got out, one way or the other.” Aziraphale hummed his agreement. 

They shared a quiet moment, then, each seemingly lost in their own thoughts. The fire was still burning merrily away in the grate, its shadows having stretched nearly across the room since the light from the windows had faded. Aziraphale let the story play again and again in his mind. He could feel the places where Crowley had held back, built a rickety bridge of vagueness over the darker wells of the story, and he tried not to let himself think too carefully about the depths of them.

“Why were you scared to come to London, then?” Aziraphale asked, eventually. “If all your former... compatriots were put away?”

“Ah.” Crowley sighed. “Well, just ‘cause they were locked away doesn’t mean they didn’t have any influence. I had moved on. Gotten my own place, published my first book. Bought the Bentley with the proceeds. It had been years since I had heard a peep from any of them. I s’pose I got too comfortable, let my guard down. I came home one night and my flat had been trashed, all my things flung about and smashed. I thought it was a one-time thing, but it happened again the next week. Then I started suspecting someone was following me. I’d moved on from that life, but there are some things you just... don’t forget. That feeling on the back of your neck when you’re being watched is one of them.”

Crowley leaned forward and reclaimed his wine glass from the table, draining it in one long pull.

“Eventually they managed to catch me at home.” Aziraphale’s gaze sharpened immediately.

“What? What did they do? Were you alright?” He thought he managed to keep the worst of the panic out of his voice.

Crowley gave a despairing look at the empty wine bottle on the table.

“Yeah. I was lucky; the people who found me were just the messengers. A few bruises and a cracked rib, but nothing too serious.”

Aziraphale thought with not a little hysteria that they were operating on  _ very  _ different definitions of the word ‘serious.’ “Messengers?”

Crowley hummed. “From my... compatriots. Telling me to get out of ‘their’ city while I had the chance, or the next time I’d get a lot more than a boot to the ribcage. One of them was due to be released on  _ good behavior _ ” he sneered, baring his teeth, “and wanted to do the job himself.”

“What did you do?” Aziraphale asked, aghast.

“Well, I didn’t need to be told twice. I’d grown quite attached to my head being where it was, thank you. I bought the house in Norbrook the next day.” He frowned. “It was a funny thing, actually. I had just sat down to start looking when I got an email from a realtor’s about the place. Hadn’t even sent out any inquiries yet.” 

“Well, I’m glad you came, even if the circumstances weren’t exactly ideal.” Aziraphale was still troubled. “Wasn’t it hard to leave behind your life, though? Everything you had in London?”

Crowley looked at him, his face torn. “I... I didn’t have much, if I’m honest. Never really picked up the habit of keeping friends. I had my work and my plants, and that was... pretty much it.”

“Oh.” Aziraphale couldn’t think of anything else to say to that. 

“Aziraphale?” Aziraphale looked up, concerned. Crowley only ever called him ‘angel.’

“Yes, my dear?”

“Do you still...” He paused, chewing at his bottom lip in a way that Aziraphale hated himself for finding distracting. “Did you mean it this morning when you said you thought anyone could be forgiven?” Crowley didn’t quite manage to meet his eyes as he said this. 

Aziraphale felt another flash of that deep, formless anger towards all the people that had contributed to putting that look on Crowley’s face. “I meant it, and I know it’s true. Anyone can be forgiven. Anyone.” 

Finally, brown eyes raised to meet his. They had a haunted, tired look about them, but the tiniest glimmer of hope as well.

“Can you forgive me?” 

Aziraphale’s heart broke in his chest. “Oh, Crowley.” He said, once again taking Crowley’s hands between his own. Crowley swayed where he sat, letting his hands be engulfed by Aziraphale’s as though he were no more than a child. “Forgiveness is... a gift given in exchange for atonement. You have done nothing wrong in my eyes. You don’t need to earn my forgiveness; you already have my love.” 

Crowley’s brows knit together, but he didn’t move to pull his hands away. “I’m a sinner.”

“We’re all sinners.” Aziraphale responded, simply. “Me no more or less than you.” Crowley opened his mouth to argue at that, but Aziraphale shushed him gently. “I’m in no position to judge you, Crowley, and whatever you judge your sins to be. I’m not God, nor even your confessor. I’m your friend. And I hope you can believe me when I tell you that you have absolutely nothing to apologize for. Not to me. Not ever. What was done to you was atrocious, and the fact that some of it was done in the name of God makes me ashamed to my very core. I just hope that I can prove to you that there is someone out there who cares about you. Truly cares.”

Hot tears were tracking down Crowley’s face again. He nodded silently, pulling his hands free from Aziraphale’s to wipe his face messily on his sleeve, then sighed wetly. “I’m tired.” 

“It’s been a long day.” Aziraphale agreed, letting Crowley pull away from him with some hesitation. “Go, rest. I recommend a bath if you have one in you.” 

Crowley nodded again then pulled himself up, his first few steps toward the bedroom door opposite Aziraphale’s rather alarmingly wobbly. He stopped in the doorway and turned back to meet Aziraphale’s eye once again.

“Thank you, angel.” His throat worked. “For... for being my friend.”

“Of course.” Was all Azirpahale could say.

Crowley disappeared into the bedroom, leaving Aziraphale alone with the crackle of the fire and a heavy heart. 

  
  
  
  


[1] The mug had been a gift from a colleague upon his ordination, all those years ago. He had always thought it a rather tasteless joke based on his name, but now looking at it put him in mind of the wistful way Crowley said “angel” when addressing him, and he’d found himself digging it out of the back of the cupboard where it had been gathering dust. 

[2] Matthew, 7:7-10. From Jesus’ Sermon on the Mount. 

[3] Crowley.exe has stopped

  
[4] In real life, the Ritz’ Royal Suite only has one bedroom. I was  _ so tempted _ , y’all. Unfortunately this isn’t that kind of fic. There’s an absolutely ridiculous youtube video with pictures of the suite here if you’re interested:  [ https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=byumLO3g0Wc ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=byumLO3g0Wc)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: child abuse/neglect, non-explicit mentions of violence, religious-based abuse/violence, PTSD/anxiety attacks, exploitation of a vulnerable person, crime.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: animal injury, blood
> 
> Everything turns out okay, I promise.

Aziraphale had mixed feelings on Lent.

On the one hand, he quite appreciated the narrative of Jesus’ journey into the Judean desert, his temptations and his persistence of faith 1. When done correctly, the holy season could be a wonderful time for self-reflection and meditations on what is truly necessary in life. A reinforcement of faith in all the best ways.

In reality, Lent meant one thing: all the ‘lapsed’ Catholics lurking about the countryside found their way into Aziraphale’s confessional to cry about their inability to give up chocolate. It was _tedious_ and _exhausting_ , a perversion at best of what it was meant to be, and by the time it was all over he nearly always felt at the end of his rope. 

It didn’t help that this year, he felt an especially strong connection to Jesus’ story. Since their trip to London, Aziraphale had been able to think of little else other than Crowley. His heartfelt confessions at the Ritz had made Aziraphale want to wrap in his arms and hide him away from the world, to protect him. It had made him _want_ him. (More than he already had, that is.) Going about his daily life now, giving his sermons, listening to the confessions of his flock and of strangers, felt to him very much like a wandering in the desert; lonely and empty and monotonous. And sweet temptation was so very close, were he only to reach out and _touch_.

It was with not a small amount of relief, then, that Easter finally rolled around. The village always put on a big celebration on Easter morning, taking over the high street with brightly coloured banners. Little tables were set up where people sold their crafts and baking and various other sundries. Norbrook didn’t have a farmer’s market or anything of the like, so these rare market events drew practically the whole town out of their houses. St. Drogo’s always left its doors propped open and encouraged people to come and go as they liked after its morning service, and Aziraphale delighted in watching the children run around and search for eggs among the pews and grounds. It was always so relieving to hear the air filled with laughter after so many days of sombre penitence. 

Aziraphale waded through the small sea of children outside the church, smiling widely as a small chorus of “Hullo, Father Fell!” echoed up from them as they scurried along. He moved from table to table along the high street, chatting amiably with parishioners and townsfolk alike, dutifully inspecting knitted goods and handmade clothes and other little bobbles for sale as he went. 

As he reached a table bearing biscuits, scones, and pies that all looked _terribly_ tempting, he heard someone clear their throat behind him.

“I think it’s an apple tart kind of day, me.” 

“Crowley!” Aziraphale gasped, delighted, and spun around. Crowley looked singularly out of place. His usual head-to-toe black ensemble stuck out against the nearly painfully colourful backdrop of the Easter decorations and bright sunshine, and his hands were stuffed almost aggressively into pockets that were far too small. “I didn’t think you’d come.” He admitted.

Crowley scowled. “Yeah, well, I figured I had to leave my house eventually. Starting to go barmy all by myself with no one to talk to but the plants.” Aziraphale felt a dip in his stomach at that. He had been trying to keep his interactions with Crowley to somewhat of a minimum since their trip to London, mainly because every moment they spent together he felt his own self-control slip a little bit further. He wondered now if he had hurt his friend because of it. Crowley’s tone didn’t seem accusatory, though. More like he was trying to cover his discomfort with the crowd by showing a bit of bristle.

“Well, I’m glad you’re here. Er--walk with me?”

Crowley glanced around at the veritable parade of pastels. “Yeah, alright.” 

They walked together, carefully not letting their arms brush as they moved. 

“Been a while since I’ve seen you in your collar,” Crowley remarked. 

Aziraphale’s hand fluttered up to his throat as if he had forgotten it was there. “Oh! Yes, I suppose it has, hasn’t it? I don’t often wear it outside of work. This event isn’t technically put on by the church but, well, it is rather expected of me today.”

“I s’pose it would be.”

Aziraphale peered at him, curiously. “How’s the new manuscript coming along, by the way? You said you’d started one.”

Crowley grimaced. “Not that great, to be honest. Been having trouble with it.”

“Writer’s block?”

“Or something.” They walked a little further, in silence. 

“You know, I--” Aziraphale began, tentatively, but was interrupted by someone approaching them:

“Father Fell! And Mister Crowley, is it?” 

“Meredith,” Aziraphale said, trying to hide his sigh. She looked vaguely triumphant and just slightly out of breath, as though she had been chasing after them. Behind her, Claire seemed to be torn between trying to hold back her mother (ineffectually) and sending hopeful little smiles at Crowley, which only made Aziraphale’s mood sour further. “Er--Happy Easter, my dear.” He didn’t think he sounded terribly convincing.

“A happy Easter to you too, Father. And to your friend here. We ‘aven’t seen you out and about much, Mr Crowley.” 

To an outside observer, Crowley probably would have seemed the picture of nonchalance. His posture was still slouched and his expression cool, perhaps a little aloof. Aziraphale, however, could just pick out the minute signs of stress: the way his muscles had tensed at being addressed, the clench of his fingers where they curled at his thighs. “Don’t get out much.” Crowley’s voice was clipped. “And you are?”

“Meredith Flynn, sir. I head up a bit of a neighbourhood watch round here, and I must say I’ve had the hardest time getting a hold of you. Tried to come by and introduce myself when you first moved in and you never answered your door.” She was smiling, but her eyes were flinty.

“Did you?” Crowley said, flatly. “Must not have been at home.” 

“Of course.” Meredith’s smile tightened. “Well, should you ever need anything, I’m at the house on the end of Abernethy. I’m sure I’ll be seeing you around, _sir_. Father.” She nodded at each of them and turned to march off, tossing her greying curls behind her as she went. 

Claire lingered, waiting until her mother was out of earshot before turning back to the two of them, shyly: “I’m sorry about her. She’s not a bad sort, really, she’s just very...protective.” 

Crowley’s eyebrows raised visibly above his sunglasses. “Protective of _what_?” 

Claire’s mouth opened, then closed again. She glanced at Aziraphale with pleading eyes.

“I’m sure your mother’s just doing what she thinks is best, my dear.” Aziraphale offered, feeling somewhat sorry for the poor girl despite himself. He wanted to get Crowley away from here, from Meredith and her ilk, though he supposed that was probably as much of a selfish urge as a protective one. Claire nodded, blushing a bit, and scurried off after her mother.

Crowley gazed after her, frowning slightly. “How old is she? The girl, I mean?” 

Aziraphale’s heart plummeted. Had Crowley been attracted to her? Did he want to know if she was of appropriate age ( _much younger and prettier than Aziraphale himself_ , his treacherous mind reminded him)? “Who, Claire? She’s, erm, about thirty I think. Somewhere in there, anyway.” The words stuck in his throat. 

Crowley's face was still scrunched up. “Bit old to be hiding in her mother’s skirts, isn’t she? Apologizing for her bad behaviour. If it were me I’d have told that old bat to stuff it years ago.” He shook his head as if clearing it, and turned back to Aziraphale with the first genuine smile he’d offered all morning. It melted Aziraphale’s heart like sunlight on wax. “Shall we get on, then, angel?”

Aziraphale just nodded, mute, and they kept walking. 

\-------------------------

They made a full loop of the festivities, chatting lightly as they went. It struck Aziraphale again how _easy_ Crowley was to talk to. They had been texting on and off in the past weeks but hadn’t really been spending much time together, both due to their unspoken agreement to distance themselves and because of Aziraphale’s increased duties at St. Drogo’s. Yet they picked up conversations as though they had never been abandoned, wove threads of ideas shared over the months of their acquaintance into their words as easily as breathing. God, Aziraphale had _missed_ him. 

A few more of the townsfolk stopped them for a chat, though he strongly suspected it was less than it would have been without Crowley at his side. Those who did work up the courage were quite friendly and even curious about Crowley. Others stayed off to the side, casting their untrustworthy glances in Crowley’s direction but keeping their distance. Aziraphale tried his best to walk the line between introducing Crowley to as many people as possible and trying not to make the man uncomfortable; he knew Crowley didn’t like people much, but he also knew he wanted to stay here in Norbrook, and Aziraphale did legitimately want him to have friends outside of himself. Wanted him to be a part of the community that Aziraphale had come to love so very much. 

Once they had walked all the way around the booths, dodging wayward children and overly chatty neighbors alike, the morning had slid well into the early afternoon. They passed by the front of St. Drogo’s, and Crowley surprised him by stopping to look at it from the street. Aziraphale hadn’t invited him back to the church after his uncomfortable reaction on their first little jaunt, and now that he knew what had happened in Crowley’s childhood he never would have dreamed of bringing him near it. 

Crowley seemed to have a different idea, though. He looked up at the stone edifice of the place, its ancient, sloping roof and the spire which would have been quite intimidating when it was first constructed more than two hundred years before. 

“This is your place, then, eh?”

Aziraphale eyed him, a little nervously. “I’m not sure you could call it ‘mine,’ but I preach here, yes.”

“Would you show me?”

Aziraphale stared at him, his mouth slightly agape. “A-are you sure my dear?” he stammered, “you certainly don’t have to!” 

Crowley quirked a small smile at him. “I know, angel. I’d... like to see it. If it’s alright.”

“Of course!” Aziraphale fiddled with the small, golden ring at his pinky. “I mean, of course it’s all right. I just wouldn’t want you to be uncomfortable, is all.”

“Can’t promise I’ll be entirely comfortable,” Crowley admitted, his voice low so as not to be overheard by the people still swarming around them, “but I think if it’s your church, your... message, I think I’ll be okay. Honest.” 

Aziraphale gave him one last nervous look. Crowley’s jaw was set in determination, his body tense, but Aziraphale couldn’t think of a reason why he might lie about wanting to see it. “Well, if you’re sure...” He led them both towards the open door to the chapel. There were a small handful of scattered people in the pews, taking the opportunity for solemn prayer. He nodded at those of them that glanced up at their arrival with an apologetic nod for disturbing their peace then glanced back behind him. Crowley lingered in the chapel door, hands once again stuffed in his pockets, breathing slowly and deeply. He seemed to be having some trouble convincing himself to cross the threshold.

Aziraphale’s heart twisted in his chest. He padded on light feet back over to Crowley and curled a warm hand around one arm gently, comfortingly. He whispered, “You’ll come to no harm here, Crowley. You can of course leave if you like, but please remember what I told you in London. You won’t find whatever judgement it is you think you deserve here, not in this place. I promise.” 

Crowley nodded, letting out a slow and shaky exhale. He seemed to brace himself, his muscles flexing and tightening beneath Aziraphale’s hand, before he put one foot across the threshold.

Nothing happened, of course. No bolt of lightning, no sudden ray of mana from the heavens. His foot sunk into the soft carpet that had long ago been laid over the bare flagstone with nothing more than a whisper. He made a sudden, quiet sound that might have been surprise or even laughter.

“Sorry.” His voice was hushed, his breathing ragged in the still air.

“Don’t be.” Aziraphale realized that he was still clutching Crowley's arm and released it guiltily. “Here, erm, why don’t you follow me this way?” 

They made their way around the outside of the pews, and Crowley craned his neck to take everything in. He looked up at the paintings placed along the walls of Mary and Jesus, of the Archangel Gabriel, of various saints and biblical figures. His eyes tracked over the ancient and well-used organ set into the wall behind the pulpit, its pipes jutting up spectacularly in rows and rows. He spared a rather nervous glance towards a nearby font of holy water but otherwise seemed to be relaxing after his initial stress. 

“It’s different,” he whispered, “from what I remember. Very... colourful.” 

Aziraphale chuckled quietly. “That would be the Catholics for you, I suppose. The glory of Heaven, here on Earth.” He swept his arm in a grand gesture to indicate the chapel’s lofty ceiling and draped walls. One of the people in the pews, an older gentleman named Mark that was a regular member of Aziraphale’s flock, opened an eye and peered curiously over at them. Aziraphale flushed slightly and held a hand up to him, then turned back to whisper to Crowley: “Er--was there anything in particular you wanted to see?”

Crowley shook his head. “No,” he answered, also in a whisper, “I think I’ve gotten what I needed.” 

Aziraphale nodded and led them to the back of the chapel once again. They blinked against the slanted afternoon sunlight in their eyes as they stepped back outside. The festival was still bustling (as much as anything in Norbrook could ever really ‘bustle’), though most of the children seemed to have gone home to recover from the sugar overdoses of the morning. The booths were still doing a relatively roaring trade, and people milled about enjoying the day of freedom and the nice weather. 

Aziraphale eyed a nearby table peddling freshly baked bread and felt his stomach gurgle slightly. It had been quite a busy day so far, and he hadn’t had much more than his morning tea. “I don’t suppose you’d be interested in a spot of lunch?” he asked.

Crowley smiled. “I think I could be persuaded. Er--away from the crowd, maybe?” 

“Oh, yes,” Aziraphale responded, gratefully. “I think I know just the spot.”

After some deliberation they bought a loaf of bread, some sheep’s cheese, and fresh cherries, and followed the narrow path that led around the side of St. Drogo’s to the back. They passed by the little cemetery with its short, stacked stone walls and trudged up the side of a hill to the base of an ancient willow. They settled themselves beneath its swaying branches and laid out their little feast. 

"I had no idea this place was up here," Crowley said. The hill looked over the street from behind the church, high enough to offer a moderate view of the Easter festival in all its pastel glory.

"I come up here for lunch sometimes, on nice days." Aziraphale popped a cherry into his mouth, enjoying the burst of rich sweetness across his tongue. He wiggled happily. When he turned back to his companion, though, Crowley was looking at Aziraphale with intense focus. Aziraphale frowned. "Are you alright, my dear?"

"Hmm?" Crowley seemed to shake himself. "Yeah, sorry. It's nice up here. Quiet." 

"I thought you found the quiet 'eerie.'" Aziraphale teased. "Or at least, you did when you first came here." 

Crowley ’s expression was impossible to read. “I did. But d’you know? I think I’m starting to like it.” 

There was something in his tone that Aziraphale wasn’t quite prepared for, a slight tease to answer his own. His cheeks pinked ever so slightly and he cleared his throat, moving to tear a careful chunk out of the loaf of bread they’d bought.

“I was quite surprised you asked to see the inside of St. Drogo’s,” he told Crowley carefully, “but I’m glad to see that you were relatively comfortable with it. What’s different now, if you don’t mind me asking? ”

Crowley hummed thoughtfully. “I’ve been talking to a therapist, actually.”

Aziraphale stopped with a hunk of bread and cheese halfway to his mouth. “Have you really? That’s excellent news!”

“Is it?” Crowley seemed amused by Aziraphale’s enthusiasm.

“Of course it is! Mental health is very important, my dear. Is that a new development?”

“Yeah, it is. Since our trip to London, actually. I told her about our conversation at the Ritz,” he glanced over to Aziraphale nervously, as though checking his reaction to that, “and she told me it might be a good idea when I was ready. ‘Overwrite bad memories with better ones with the support of a friend’ or something like that.” 

Aziraphale positively _beamed_ at him. 

“ _Don’t_ make a thing of it, angel, please,” Crowley continued before Aziraphale could say anything, “it’s embarrassing enough as it is.”

Aziraphale held up a hand in defeat, but couldn’t quite get rid of his beatific grin. “I shall do my best, my dear. I’m very glad you’re talking to someone, and I am more than honoured that you trust me to help. I really think you’ll be happy here, Crowley, in Norbrook. I hope that very much.”

Crowley was giving him that odd, unreadable look again. “Right, angel.” He grabbed a cherry and brought it up to his lips. Sharp teeth bit into the soft fruit and peeled half of it away from the pit in the middle, a few tiny drops of red juice glinting off his lips in the sun. “Happy,” he finished, turning back to look towards the high street. 

Aziraphale swallowed, then did the same. 

\-------------------------

Aziraphale was awoken suddenly by the sound of his phone going off. Its chirpy tune cut through the thick fog of disorientation that weighed him down as he blinked at his bedroom ceiling, trying to process what was going on. He rolled over and glanced at the small screen on the phone’s front: _Crowley_. His hand reached out for the phone and he fumbled with it briefly before he managed to bring it up to an ear.

“Crowley?” He said, his voice still rough with sleep, “What time is it?”

“ _Aziraphale!_ ” Aziraphale sat up, alarmed. There was fear in Crowley’s voice. It sounded as though he was moving around, too, his breaths harsh in Aziraphale’s ear. “ _Angel, I need your help. I can’t--I don’t know what to do!_ ”

Aziraphale was already half out of bed, fumbling around for his dressing gown in the dark. “What’s wrong, Crowley? Do you need an ambulance?” 

“ _No, I don’t need an ambulance, but I--oh, shit, no, don’t--!”_ There was a great fumbling noise and more cursing from Crowley’s end, and the call went dead. 

Aziraphale practically threw himself down the stairwell towards his front door, stopping only to slip on some shoes and grab the torch he kept in the entryway. He flipped it on as he hurried off into the night, using its meagre beam to guide him across the dark lane and through the grassy field separating their streets. He slipped and stumbled in the slight morning dew that had gathered but kept moving as quickly as he could manage. 

All the lights were off in Crowley’s cottage. Aziraphale came to a halt at the edge of the field, panting slightly as he tried to decide what the best course of action was, his heart beating furiously. What if Crowley was hurt? What if someone was breaking in? He had sounded nearly frantic on the phone. What if--

A beam of light became visible very briefly; a torch like Aziraphale’s own was being swung around wildly in Crowley’s back garden. Aziraphale pushed down his mounting panic and tip-toed forward, making his way slowly towards the gate at the side of the house, listening intently for any sign of voices. After a few tense seconds he was able to make out Crowley’s voice from around the corner, which was speaking in a low voice:

“You’re alright, love, everything’s gonna be alright. If you would just-- _no, stop that!_ ”

Aziraphale threw caution to the wind. He opened the gate and rushed around the back of the house, coming to a harsh halt as he took in the scene before him. 

Crowley was hunched over on the ground by a set of bushes. His dressing gown had been removed and was currently being used to contain something in his arms which was squirming violently, trying desperately to escape, jostling the torch he was barely keeping hold of in his other hand.

“Would you just _relax_ , I am trying to _help you here_ \--”

“Crowley?” Crowley’s head snapped up and over to Aziraphale. His shoulders seemed to droop in relief. 

“Aziraphale, _thank God_ , look--come here, will you?” 

Feeling a little stunned, Aziraphale did so. He hurried over to where Crowley was kneeling and dropped to the ground beside him. “What’s happened?”

Crowley’s eyes were a little wild. “I heard screaming outside and ran out to try and see what was going on. There was something--a fox, maybe--in the bushes. I scared it off. And when I went to see what it had been after I found _these_ guys.” With some difficulty, he wrangled his still-squirming bundle into the crook of one arm and pulled aside the lower branches of the nearest bush with the hand grasping the torch.

There, nestled snugly in a little circle, were a group of baby bunnies. They were obviously the offspring of one of the many escaped pets that plagued the landscape; jet black with splotches of white splashed across their bodies like paint. They were so young that their eyes were still shut tight, despite their weak squirming. 

Aziraphale took this in, then glanced back at the thing in Crowley’s arms. “So then that’s--”

“The mother,” Crowley confirmed. “She was injured by the fox, I think. She was bleeding. Her leg was hurt, she had a bite in her middle. I didn’t know what to _do_!” His breath was picking up again, panic creeping back into his voice. 

Aziraphale would have paid a great price never to have seen such anguish on Crowley’s face again. “There’s an all-hours animal hospital two villages over,” he found himself saying, “we’ll take her there.” 

“But what about--” 

“You take her and go to the car. I’ll get the babies.” He removed the dressing gown from around his own shoulders, shivering slightly as the cold night air hit him in force. Crowley struggled to his feet and moved off on shaking legs, still clutching the mother rabbit in his arms. Carefully, using the corner of the dressing gown to wrap one hand, Aziraphale transferred all six of the kits one at a time into the make-shift nest in his arms before hurrying off to join Crowley at the Bentley.

This time, Aziraphale barely noticed Crowley’s terrifying driving as they sped through the darkened motorways towards the animal hospital. Time passed in a tense blur, neither of them speaking much beyond the giving of directions and Aziraphale’s reassurances that everything would turn out alright. 

They screeched into the animal hospital’s car park much quicker than they should have been able to. The person at the front desk whisked them into a back room almost immediately, and they explained the situation to a veterinarian who quickly returned with something to sedate the mama and contain her litter while a closer look was taken. 

Crowley remained a tense line beside Aziraphale as the veterinarian did her work. She poked and prodded and shifted limbs around with careful hands, cooing at her patient’s unconscious form in a way that spoke of many years of habit. The rabbit was pure black, unlike her children, and had obviously taken a good bite or two from whatever had attacked her. Her beautiful fur was streaked with blood, but for all that Aziraphale didn’t know much about animal medicine, it didn’t seem to him like she had taken any fatal wounds.

The veterinarian seemed to agree. “She might have a lame leg for a while,” she said once she had washed the worst of the grime from her hands, “but she’ll make it. I’m going to give you some antibiotics to make sure those bites don’t get infected. Give it to her with the little plunger once a day for a fortnight and she’ll be right as rain.”

“A fortnight?” Crowley’s face was still wide, vulnerable, “but she’s not--I mean, she’s not mine. I found her in my garden.” 

The vet looked from Crowley to the black rabbit, and to the slightly squirming bundle that was the litter in their little tray. “Well then, Mister Crowley, I suppose you have a choice, and it’s beyond me to tell you what you should do. But _these_ ,” she nodded at the little rabbit family, “are not wild rabbits, and they shouldn’t be put back in your garden. A shelter might take them if you’re lucky, but...” she trailed off. 

Aziraphale took in a breath to try and say something, though he wasn’t sure what, but Crowley beat him to it:

“No,” he said, quietly, “no, I’ll take them. I won’t--I’ll figure it out.” 

Aziraphale stared at him, surprised. Crowley had seemed concerned at the rabbits’ immediate welfare, yes, but he had thought that had been heat-of-the-moment compassion. This willingness to care for them in the long term was... something else entirely. 

The veterinarian nodded approvingly. She provided them with the promised antibiotics and instructions on how to administer them, along with formula and a tiny bottle to feed the babies with until the mother’s sedative had worn off. They drove home with the whole family in a little carrier, swaddled in blankets and quiet with sleep, the sun just beginning to send its first pink light out over the horizon.

Aziraphale had been mostly silent during this whole ordeal, feeling rather in excess to need. Now he held the carrier balanced carefully on his lap and watched Crowley’s face under the guise of looking out the front windscreen. 

“This was all very kind of you, you know,” he commented as they drew near the outskirts of Norbrook proper. 

Crowley gave him a tired, lopsided smile. “It’s not. I may be a grump but I’m not a _demon_ , it’s what anybody would do.” 

Aziraphale knew that was very much not the case, but refrained from saying so. “If you insist, dear.”

Several days later, Aziraphale paid Crowley a visit to check how both he and the rabbits were getting on. Crowley opened the door with a wide smile and tugged him upstairs to his office. He had constructed (or, presumably, hired someone to construct) a large, multi-level hutch with a run along the floor that took up almost half the room. Beyond a mesh barrier, the mother stretched lazily as six tiny, multicoloured balls of fluff hopped energetically about her. 

“I’ve named her Lilith,” Crowley told him proudly, which absolutely should not have inspired the burst of adoration and fondness in Aziraphale that it did. “I haven’t named the babies yet in case I have to give some of them away, though.” He went on about the rabbits’ feeding and progress, but Aziraphale found he couldn’t quite make himself listen. He was instead focused on the absolute _joy_ emanating out of Crowley as he spoke. He was lit up from the inside, radiant in his kindness, and absolutely _breathtakingly_ beautiful.

_Oh, dear_ , Aziraphale thought, _I really am in trouble, aren’t I?_

1\. As told in the gospels of Matthew, Luke, and Mark, Jesus wandered the Judean desert for forty days before returning to Galilee to begin preaching. During this journey, the Devil repeatedly appeared to him to try and tempt him. The second of these temptations is recounted in Matthew 4:8; “Again, the devil took him to an exceedingly high mountain, and showed him all the kingdoms of the world, and their glory.” Back

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There will be two more parts to this! I have a lot more time for writing now that school is out so I'm hoping to churn this out relatively quickly. 
> 
> Also note that the rating will likely go up in the next part!


	7. Chapter 7

Aziraphale paused at the gate to the cathedral, gazing up at its looming stone edifice with trepidation. The Cathedral at Arundel was done in classic French Gothic style, all dark stone and spiky turrets that came off more menacing than inviting, towering over the little village that contained it. The front face of it had life-sized depictions of Mary as well as Jesus and his Disciples staring down at the front entrance with sombre expressions. Aziraphale couldn’t resist the urge to cross himself as he approached the door under their watchful eyes. 

The inside was no less intimidating. A vaulting ceiling caused his soft footsteps to echo against the marbled floor, whispers reverberating back at him through the empty chapel. The Bishops’ offices were tucked away behind the main part of the church and he found his familiar way to them through the polished oak door, then down the hall to the particular one he sought. 

Bishop Gabriel looked up from his desk as Aziraphale knocked lightly on his open doorframe. 

“Ah! Father Fell. Please, come sit.” A warm smile that did not reach his eyes followed Aziraphale as he found his way to the chair before Gabriel’s desk, twisting his hands nervously in his lap. “How are things in--sorry, what was your parish again?”

“Norbrook. And they’re just fine, Father. Quite well. Very quiet. Er, how have you been?” Aziraphale tried desperately to stop his nervous babbling. 

Gabriel didn’t seem to notice his discomfort, or perhaps he was simply used to Aziraphale being nervous around him. “I’ve been wonderful! I’m on the shortlist of appointees for when Archbishop Sutter over in Southwark takes on his Cardinalship, you know. May God lead the Pope to the right decision.” His grin was nauseatingly smug, but Aziraphale managed to arrange his features into something approaching agreement. Knowing Gabriel and his connections, that appointment had very little to do with the will of God or the Pope and much more to do with his family’s pocketbooks. 

“Now,” Gabriel continued, “what was it you wanted to talk to me about so urgently? If everything’s just fine in your little parish, I mean.”

‘Little’ may have been a rather apt description of Norbrook as a whole, but the way Gabriel said it still made Aziraphale bristle slightly. He pushed down the instinct to rise to that bait and instead pressed on: “Y-yes. It’s not about Norbrook, actually, Father. I had a bit of a...theological question for you, I suppose. On behalf of a friend of mine.”

One of Gabriel’s pristinely plucked eyebrows rose, disbelievingly. “Go on.”

“Right.” Aziraphale swallowed, and shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “Well, I received some correspondence from a fellow priest who has been having something of a crisis of faith. Not because his belief in God’s promise has waned, mind you, but because he’s...he’s fallen in love. And now he’s wondering if perhaps the path God chose for him is not the one he has been walking. And he’s...afraid.”

Gabriel’s stare was cool. “And what did you tell this ‘fellow priest?’” 

“Well, nothing yet. I thought I would come to you first, seek your guidance.” Aziraphale tried to project as much sincerity as he could.

“Oh, Aziraphale.” Gabriel sighed, steepling his fingers before him on the desk and giving Aziraphale a look of terribly feigned sympathy. “Has this person...partaken in this desire?”

Aziraphale flushed. “N-no! Or, er, not that I know of. Not that they expressed to me, that is.”

“Well, that’s good at least. Perhaps they can still be recovered.” 

“Do you think so?” Aziraphale’s heart skipped a beat in his chest. Is that what he wanted to be, ‘recovered?’ As lost as he felt in his indecision, his love for Crowley was anything but _wayward_. 

“Of course.” Gabriel’s tone was dismissive. “This isn’t the first time this has happened, Aziraphale, and it certainly won’t be the last. Desires of the flesh are here to distract us from our holy path, but they can be overcome.”

Aziraphale blinked a bit at that. “What about desires of the heart?” 

The Bishop’s patience was obviously growing thin. “Aziraphale. You of all people should know that God’s love is the only _true_ love. Other...attachments are important, of course, for those less blessed with God’s love than you or me. A comfort and a source of new little Catholics, nothing more.” 

“But that’s not--” Aziraphale sputtered, slightly shocked to hear the Bishop say such a thing, “surely that can’t be true! Not everyone has a direct personal relationship with God, perhaps, but that doesn’t mean that their love isn’t _real_. Surely all love is a reflection of His love, a portion of His grace just as much as--” He stopped himself.

Oh. _Oh!_

He stood, suddenly, the chair he had been sitting in scraping gratingly across the floor. “Excuse me, I need to--I have to go.” 

“Aziraphale!” Aziraphale halted his sudden retreat. Gabriel was looking at him with barely contained distaste. “I do hope your _friend_ isn’t about to do something very, _very_ stupid.” 

“So, do I, Father,” Aziraphale answered simply, and turned back to the door.

\------------------------

Aziraphale glanced around the pews again, scanning the assembled congregation from where he was tucked out of view. No shock of red hair or slick black sunglasses. He waited another five minutes or so before he finally gave up, swallowing his nervousness and disappointment, and stepped out from the doorway. 

Whispers erupted from the pews and followed him as he approached the pulpit. He had thought it most appropriate that he forgo his collar and vestments, considering, and his casual clothing felt terribly out of place in this most familiar environment. As did his hands, apparently. He ran them along the well-worn wood of the pulpit’s edge in a nervous gesture.

“I would like to thank everyone for gathering on such short notice,” he said, voice carrying despite how quiet it had come out. The whispers halted, every person hanging on his word. “I know it’s not--”

The door at the back of the chapel swung open with the sudden creak of old oak. Crowley appeared from behind it, looking a bit sheepish, the late afternoon sun spilling in from behind him framing him in golden light. He shuffled over to the very back pew under the eyes of the congregation, then nodded at Aziraphale.

Aziraphale beamed back. 

“I know it’s not exactly a conventional time for a mass,” he continued, turning back to face the rest of his flock, “but I have something that I need to say, and I... I owe it to all of you to say it now.”

He took a deep breath. “I have asked the Archbishop of Southwark to send you a replacement. I have stepped down from the priesthood.” There was another surge of whispers and shocked gasps. In the back of the room, Crowley stirred in his pew, his expression drawn in confusion. “I would like you all to know that this decision has absolutely nothing to do with my love for this community. I intend to stay here and continue to live among you, if you’ll continue to have me. But I can’t...”

He trailed off, swallowing heavily. “I have come to believe that God has a different path in mind for me than the one I have been walking. My father used to say ‘if it doesn’t call out to you, don’t follow it.’ It has been a great honour being your servant, your shepherd. But now it is time for me to follow the path that calls rather than the path most easily followed. Thank you, truly. For everything.”

He offered one last rather smile to his once-flock, their faces shocked and disbelieving, then stepped down from the pulpit. The chapel remained almost perfectly silent as he made his way down the middle aisle towards Crowley. 

“Alright, angel?” Crowley said when he reached him, sounding a bit dazed. 

Aziraphale smiled down at him. “Quite, my dear.” He reached out a tentative hand and tucked a stray curl behind Crowley’s ear. He no longer cared if God or anyone else saw his naked affection for this man.

Crowley seemed to take the gentle touch for the invitation it was and surged to his feet. Slowly, carefully, his expression still almost slack with disbelief, he took Aziraphale’s face between his hands. “Are you sure about this?” he whispered. His voice was shaking. “I’m not--I don’t want to be the reason you leave everything you’ve worked for behind.” Aziraphale didn’t miss the _I’m not worth this_ that had almost spilled from his lips, and sighed internally. So much healing yet to be done. Yet what a blessing to think that they could do it _together_. 

“I’m sure.” He said simply. “It’s not just you, though I’ll admit you’re a big part of it. This has been coming for a long time. I merely needed some... let’s call it ‘divine inspiration.’” Crowley barked a laugh and, apparently done with waiting, brought their lips together. Aziraphale felt the world drop out from beneath his feet. Crowley’s lips were warm and soft, as were his hands, and they moved with a gentleness that made him nearly weep. He gripped at Crowley’s shirt as the moment stretched on, a perfect little bubble of absolute bliss.

“ _You!_ ” Their lips parted suddenly and they looked over towards the source of the cry, Aziraphale still feeling a little disoriented from the kiss. It was Meredith, of course, standing up from where she had been sitting in the pews. She was looking at Crowley, practically trembling with rage. Claire was beside her, wide-eyed. Most of the others looked on with various expressions of bewilderment or unease. “I knew from the moment you swept in here with your flash clothes and your stupid sunglasses that you were going to be trouble. But _this_? Tempting our Father away from his flock? You--you’re of the _Devil_ , you are!” 

Aziraphale’s fingers tightened where they were buried in Crowley’s shirt. “You have no idea who this man is,” he said, snapping, feeling terrifying untethered from all the things that had once held him back, “or what he’s done. He hasn’t _tempted_ me to anything.” _Yet_ , his brain supplied, unhelpfully.

Meredith only bristled further. Crowley seemed to shrink back on himself as she stepped forward. “I don’t know what he’s said to you, Father, but I won’t allow--” 

“ _Mom!_ ” Meredith’s mouth shut with a click. Aziraphale turned to where Claire stood behind her, shaking from her outburst, stunned. “ _I_ won’t allow _you_ to talk like that to someone who’s just trying to follow his heart. I know _you_ don’t have one, but that doesn’t mean the rest of us haven’t. Now stop digging your nose around in everybody else’s bleeding business and _go home_ , will you?” 

It was Meredith’s turn to gape in shock now, staring at Claire as though she had never actually seen her before. She cast her eyes around the rest of the congregation. While there was still a decent amount of uncertainty still evident in the crowd, many had turned stony faces on Meredith and some had even moved to put themselves between her and Aziraphale. Realizing she was defeated, Meredith gave one last angry huff and stomped off towards the door to the chapel, disappearing off into the quickly fading sunlight beyond. 

Aziraphale turned to Claire, whose chest was still rising and falling in righteous fury. “Er--thank you, my dear.” 

She managed to calm down enough to flash him a grin. “No, thank _you_ , Father.” Then, seemingly out of nowhere, “Did you hear I’ve been offered a job in London?”

He blinked. “Just ‘Aziraphale’ now, dear. Are you going to take it?” 

“Yeah,” she said, decisively. She offered him one last smile and gave a cheeky wink to Crowley, who blushed, then started off towards the door. “Yeah, I think I will.” 

Once she had left, it was like a dam breaking. People swarmed around them, asking questions, seeking reassurance or offering advice. Some expressed their regret at losing Aziraphale as a priest, others merely congratulated them. There were a few who slipped silently out of the door with looks akin to Meredith’s on their faces, but overall the news seemed to be received with vaguely baffled acceptance. Aziraphale was happy to stay and chat as long as Crowley was there holding his hand. 

\------------------------

Later, they collapsed against the inside of Crowley’s front door together, exhausted. Word had travelled as fast as it always did and it had seemed as though the whole town had wanted to stop and speak with them. It had been gratifying to have so many people accept his decision, had reminded him why he loved this place so very much despite its foibles, but he had to admit it had been a bit much, even for him. 

“If one more little old lady tries to pinch my cheek, I think I’m gonna scream,” Crowley groused beside him, without any actual heat. He removed his sunglasses and tossed them to the side in the general direction of his bowl of keys. “Where do they all _come_ from?”

Aziraphale couldn’t help but chuckle at that. “The hills breed them, I think.”

Crowley made a low sound in his throat, then turned to look at Aziraphale. He smiled at him then, tentatively, a gesture Aziraphale was hopeless but to return.

“I think a drink is in order, don’t you, angel?” Crowley’s dopey grin could have lit up a room.

Aziraphale was sure his own wasn’t far off. “A nice champagne, perhaps? To celebrate?” 

Crowley swooped in for a quick peck on the lips, causing Aziraphale to chuckle delightedly, then took off down the hall towards the kitchen. Aziraphale followed him. He looked on fondly as Crowley bustled around in his kitchen, his movements jaunty despite the strain of the day. 

“How is Lilith’s brood getting on, by the way?” Aziraphale asked as Crowley poured them both a healthy measure of a bubbly, amber liquid into flutes. 

“They’re growing like anything, is what they’re doing. And causing trouble. They’ve figured out they can use their cuteness to get extra treats if they play it up.”

“And despite knowing about it, you still let them.” Aziraphale accepted a glass from Crowley, whose expression had turned hunted.

“Listen, they’re _really_ cute.” 

Aziraphale laughed and leaned in to kiss him again, the lure of the champagne temporarily overwhelmed by the sweetness of Crowley’s lips. They each settled on one end of Crowley’s ridiculously plush sofa, daring to let their knees brush together where they were turned towards one another. 

Crowley raised his glass to invite Aziraphale to touch his own to it in a toast, which he did with a grin, then took a sip. “What’ll you do now? Jobs-wise, I mean.” 

“I’m not sure,” Aziraphale admitted, “though I’ve given it a fair bit of thought in the past week or so. More than I probably care to admit. I have enough savings to keep me in shopping for a while, at least, and I could always sell a few of my less prized third editions if I’m forced to. After that I thought I might put in an application at one of the local colleges. I’m more than qualified to teach literature or theology, I should think.”

“And you meant what you said at the church, about staying in Norbrook?” 

Aziraphale smiled softly at him, again. Another out for him to take if he wanted it, another reassurance that Aziraphale could change his mind if he wanted to do so. _God_ , he loved this man. “Yes, I meant it. The house is mine, thankfully, not somewhere I was placed by the church. Otherwise I would be in quite a pickle.” Feeling rather daring, he reached out and tangled his fingers up with Crowley’s, squeezing them tightly. “But I think perhaps at some point in the future I could see myself finding somewhere a little more...roomy, let’s say?”

Crowley’s grin was blinding. “Yeah?” 

“Yes, my dear, my darling. Yes.” He kissed him again, there on the sofa on the first day of the rest of their lives, and he didn’t stop for a very long time. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let not my love be called idolatry,  
> Nor my beloved as an idol show,  
> Since all alike my songs and praises be  
> To one, of one, still such, and ever so.  
> -Shakespeare, sonnet 105
> 
> After some deliberation I decided to keep the main work rated M for those folks who prefer that. There is a continuation to this chapter that is E-rated which can be found [here](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24881116), or by following the link below to the second part of the series. There will be an epilogue to this work, posted (hopefully) next Tuesday!


	8. Epilogue

The wedding was a small thing, an intimate affair, as neither of them had much to speak of in the way of family or friends. 

A few of Crowley’s siblings had somehow [1](miraculously)managed to track him down a few months prior and had been ecstatic to hear of the engagement; they had run away from their parents’ oppressive home years after Crowley had escaped, and had nearly lost hope that they’d ever be able to see him again. They stood in the small circle along with a smiling Claire and those townsfolk the two of them had grown particularly close to over the years. 

Aziraphale had sent a notification of the wedding to the nuns at his old orphanage, not really expecting a response. He hadn’t lived there for decades, of course, and considering that he had left the priesthood he didn’t expect any response he did get to be a positive one. He had been wrong. Two of the sisters that had watched over him, both old and grey now, though still as vibrant as he remembered them being, had come to attend and had been nothing but smiles the whole time. There were also his graduate students and one or two colleagues dotted about.

Needless to say, it was more than enough for them. More than they could ever have hoped for. 

It took place in the back garden of their cottage, right there in Norbrook. Crowley had outdone himself; lilacs in white and light purple were in full bloom, their scent carried on the light summer breeze, and various other blooms in these same colours formed a perfect backdrop to the little clearing they were using for the purpose. Tables draped in white linen carrying champagne, hors d'oeuvres, and the party favours they had chosen for the guests to take home [2](flutes)were spaced regularly around the outside edge of the space. A handful of musicians played a delicate orchestral melody.

The young woman they had hired to perform the ceremony was a bit of a compromise. A small part of Aziraphale had wanted to be married at St. Drogo’s, as uncomfortable as he would have been with having the officiant be the town’s new priest; it still held a part of his heart, after all, even if it was no longer _home_. He wouldn’t have put Crowley through that, though he was sure he would have agreed if Aziraphale had his heart set on it. They had gone instead for a delightful young priest from London who had been happy to keep the ceremony all-inclusive.

Aziraphale looked out over the small gathering from the shadowed back door of their cottage, musing on the past three years of his life. He thought about that first fated meeting in the shop, he and Crowley’s first walk, the endless messages and phone calls they’d shared despite living so close to one another. He thought of their first kiss in the church, their first _real_ date at _The Lonely Rose_ the next day. Crowley had been so _nervous_. He thought about Crowley proposing to him, down on one knee at the Ritz exactly two years after they had admitted their love for each other. The applause from the people around them. The noise complaints they’d received from hotel staff the next morning... 

He sighed, contentedly, still gazing out over the garden.

“Not having second thoughts, are we, angel? came a voice from behind him. Aziraphale smiled as Crowley wrapped his arms around Aziraphale’s middle from behind, black sleeves a sharp contrast to Aziraphale’s own stark-white suit. He let his head fall back onto Crowley’s shoulder as soft kisses were pressed to his temple, his cheek.

“Not at all, my dear. Merely reminiscing.” 

“On good things, I hope.” 

He found Crowley’s hand with one of his own and gave it a gentle squeeze. “The best.” He felt rather than saw Crowley’s grin where it was pressed against him.

The orchestral music floating up at them from the garden changed, and the first familiar notes of Mendelssohn’s classic made his heart clench. 

“Here we are, then,” Crowley breathed. He released Aziraphale and moved to take his place beside him, smoothing his hands down the wrinkles he had made in the fabric. He gave Aziraphale a look out of the corner of his eye. “You ready?”

Aziraphale beamed back at him. “I’m ready.” He slipped his hand demurely onto the arm that Crowley offered, his other moving to scoop up the small bouquet of flowers Crowley had picked for him that morning. 

Together, they walked through the doorway and followed the little path towards the circle of well-wishers and friends, their steps falling in perfect time with the music. They said their vows (which reduced them both into crying messes, of course) and kissed in front of God and everybody. Aziraphale tossed his bouquet to a group of assorted hopeful singles, laughing cheerfully as Claire raised it to the sky in triumph. They drank and ate and chatted and shared besotted kisses as though they were newly together all over again. 

And later, after the party was over and the guests had gone home, they retired back to their little cottage, completely and utterly content. 

\---------------

_With a click of his fingers, the light spilling from the television went out and they were plunged into darkness; they’d been watching for several hours now, and the night had crept in while he hadn’t been paying attention. He waved a hand and brought the room lights back up to a comfortable level of dimness, then glanced over to Crowley. He expected to find the demon smiling, sappy, leaning in for an amorous kiss as Aziraphale himself was feeling wont to do at that moment._

_Instead, he found him crying. Tear tracks were streaked down Crowley’s face, his bottom lip bitten nearly bloody as though he had been smothering sobs, his eyes not meeting Aziraphale’s concerned gaze._

_“Are you alright, my love?” Aziraphale asked softly, thumbing the tears away from his demon’s face. “Was it not--did I do something wrong?”_

_Crowley shook his head sharply. He took a few deep, calming breaths to get himself together before he seemed able to speak: “No, no, ‘m alright. Just. That was--” He closed his eyes against a fresh wave of tears._

_“Oh dear,” Aziraphale fretted, frowning softly at Crowley’s obvious distress, “I’m truly sorry, Crowley. I didn’t mean for this to be upsetting.”_

_“Not upset,” Crowley insisted, despite the evidence to the contrary. “It’s--I’m--moved. Thank you, angel. This is more than I...I love it. Really.”_

_Aziraphale peered at him closely, trying to discern if he was being honest or merely pretending for Aziraphale’s sake. His face was still a bit wretched, but there was a burning love simmering under the surface, brilliant and aching, overwhelming enough to drown in. He smiled a bit and pulled Crowley towards him to lean against his chest. Crowley buried his face in the soft jumper he was wearing to ward off the chill of the South Downs winter evening, letting Aziraphale pet through his hair and across his shoulders._

_“I can’t believe you messed with reality for me,” Crowley mumbled, half-muffled against Aziraphale’s chest._

_“Only a very small bit,” Aziraphale answered breezily, leaning down to place a kiss in Crowley’s hair._

_A single accusatory yellow eye peeked up at him. “You went digging through another universe until you found versions of us and made them fall in love. How is that ‘a small bit?’”_

_“I did not_ make _them fall in love! Merely...guided them on the paths necessary for them to meet. They did the rest themselves.”_

_Crowley huffed a laugh. “Ridiculous. Absolutely ridiculous. And why was this something you felt the need to do? Not that I’m complaining, mind.”_

_“It started a few weeks ago, actually. Do you remember that conversation we had about alternate universes?”_

_Crowley frowned, thinking. “The one where you told me I watch too many science fiction programmes on the telly?”_

_“Er, yes, actually. That one. You told me--”_

_“I told you that I would find you anywhere, even in another dimension.”_

_Aziraphale’s smile was achingly gentle as he gazed down at Crowley, who was now turned fully in his lap to look up at him. “That’s right. You were just so_ earnest _about it, so loving. I thought to myself, ‘why not?’ It took me a little time to find the books I needed and I had to trade a few favours with Anathema, but it was well worth it, I think.”_

_“I love you, angel.” God, he looked so vulnerable. Aziraphale wanted to hold him close and never, ever let him go._

_“And I love you, my dear. Here and now, then and there, anytime and anyplace and any universe you can find. I love you.”_

_He didn’t deign to mention the fresh tears pressed from Crowley’s eyes at that._

_Later, when they were both feeling a little less overcome, Crowley asked: “Is there more? Of the film, or footage or whatever, I mean.”_

_“Well, there’s as much as you like, I suppose. It’s not exactly a camera in the traditional sense. What did you have in mind?”_

_Crowley looked a bit sheepish. “Their lives together. Growing old. Just...the rest of it. I want to see.”_

_Aziraphale smiled at him again, and leaned in to press another kiss between drawn brows. “Of course, dear. Anything.”_

_The lights went dark again as they leaned back to watch the lives of their other selves unfold, together._

1\. Almost _miraculously_ , one might say. [Back](miraculouslyback)

1\. Delicate champagne flutes, rimmed in gold and decorated with one white and one black wing which met in the centre. It had become a bit of an inside joke for Aziraphale to refer to Crowley as “his demon” (or “ _the_ demon” if he was annoyed with him) considering his own nickname, and they had decided to run with the theme. [Back](flutesback)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all of you for sticking with me through this fic!


End file.
